Cinderblock Garden
by Cassiel-of-Thursday
Summary: Dean Winchester is a lot of things. He's an orphan, a brother and a hunter. One thing he isn't is crazy. A misunderstanding lands him in a psychiatric hospital, he's sure it's only a matter of time before he gets let go. As the time drags on, he makes friends with his roommate, though the conversations are a little one sided. When Sam agrees with the Dr, Dean is confused as hell.
1. I think we're onto something

His back was killing him. He'd spent far too long ducked down in that grave. All he really wanted now was a shower and some whisky.

He drives back to his motel room. A shady looking spot on the outskirts of the town. Most of the lights in the sign are out or flickering, and the pool is green and mossy looking. The parking lots lines are faded and it's hard to tell where one parking spot ends and another begins and the sidewalk is crumbling in places. It's not the ritz, but it works for him.

He cuts the ignition and steps out, hoping there aren't many other people out in the midnight hour to see his disheveled shape. His back is tight from the strain and his jeans are filthy, his boots leaving muddy prints on the pavement as he goes.

He takes a quick shower and sends a text off to Sammy before lamenting in the fact that he's out of whisky.

He remembers a small bar a little bit farther into town, and he swipes his keys off the bedside table, throws his flannel over his shoulders and heads back out to his car.

The bar isn't real busy at 2 am, and in a town this size he's actually surprised it's open at all. He heads in, his favorite ivory gripped gun tucked into his jeans. It's probably not necessary, but he's learned the hard way that he gets boned if he's unprepared.

He takes a seat at the bar and orders a whiskey neat, and damn does it feel good going down his throat. The first one is gone quickly, and he can still feel the burn it left in it's wake when he taps the bar and waves for another. This one he nurses for longer. Long enough for a man that screams ex-military to take a seat next to him.

He can feel the stranger's eyes boring a hole into the side of his skull.

"You got a problem there, man?" He asks the stranger when it's been thirty seconds of staring; twenty nine seconds too long for another guy to be staring at him. A woman he could maybe understand, but this is just unsettling.

"I'm Cole," he says, extending his right hand across the his front. He eyes it warily before taking it in his own.

"Dean." Dean gives him a cursory glance before turning back to his drink.

"Anyone ever tell you you've got pretty lips Dean-o?" Dean shakes his head.

"Don't swing your way dude."

"Pretty cock-sucking lips." Cole goads. Dean refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

"I'm gonna give you one chance to knock that crap off." He threatens, tossing back the rest of his whiskey. He looks over to emphasize his point, and sees a strange look on Cole's face for someone who was just spouting crude remarks, and the bartender is giving him a weary glance. Dean scoffs, looking back to the bar, wondering how he's the one getting the stink eye when Cole started it. He sees the bartender slide Cole a beer, and he thinks maybe he's decided to back off after all.

He's debating whether or not he wants a third, glancing at his watch when Cole crosses the line.

"Bet you'd look real good with my dick up your-" Dean's fist is colliding with Cole's teeth before he gets to finish his comment, and he blocks a swing coming from the guy's right hand, and he's blindsided by an even faster swing from the left. He hadn't expected Cole to be a lefty, and hadn't had his guard up on that side. He throws up his leg, nailing Cole in the chest and knocking him back over a barstool and into the floor.

Someone wraps their arms around his, and then he's pulled to the ground on his ass and flipped over with his face in the dirty floor.

He's kept pinned to the ground when he hears approaching sirens. He smack his head on the floor, wondering how he'd been dumb enough to get caught up with the law again. Cole is in a corner booth, nursing his wounded face, and he deduces that it's the bartender that's got him down. He wonders if bar scuffs are common in this town. Before he knows it he's dragged up off the ground and slapped in handcuffs.

They pull him out to the cop car and throw him gracelessly in the backseat. One of the cops, a older man with a beard and a ball cap that he's not sure is part of the uniform.

"You got yourself in some trouble haven't ya boy?"

"I didn't start it."

"Hmph." His partner, a skinny black man, is still inside. He can see him talking to the bartender through the window of the bar.

"Should have left after the first drink," Dean mumbles.

"You say somethin' princess?"

"I'm gonna get both of you with sexual harassment," he growls, tired of hearing derogatory comments about his looks. It was bad enough when he was eighteen and hitchiking he doesn't need it now that he's a god-damn adult.

"You watch your tone with me." Dean flops back against the seat. It's a couple more minutes before his partner comes back out and gets in the car, slamming the door hard enough to shake the frame.

The two cops exchange a few words Dean can't quite make out before the older guy turns in his seat to face Dean.

"Well, son. You got lucky. He ain't pressing charges on your sorry ass." Officer ... Singer, he's able to read off his name tag says.

"So I can go?" Dean asks. The passenger snorts.

"You think you're gonna get off scotch free after tearin up my favorite place to drink?"

"Give it a rest Rufus," Singer admonishes. "Look, kid. We're gonna take you to a hospital and get you checked out. We ain't trying to hurt ya."

This is gonna be a long night.

They drive him to the emergency room across town from the bar. By this point, he's exhausted and grumpy. They sign him in at three in the morning, he fills out the ridiculously long paperwork, and with his real information, unlike what he'd given the motel. He puts Sam down as his emergency contact, because he's the only thing he's got left, and if some crack pot doctor kills him up in here, well at least Sammy deserves to know Dean isn't just ignoring his calls. He reads through the extensive questionnaire about medical history and family history, marking almost everything but alcohol and smoking as non issues. Dad was an alcoholic from his mom's death till the day he died, and well, Dean was a stupid teen who thought smoking was cool once, and unfortunately it just kind of stuck.

He sits there for a long time, his shoulders aching from being behind his back in handcuffs.

It's nine before he's actually seen by anyone.

They take his blood pressure and shine this light in his eyes. He's asked to do some odd tasks, which some of them were hard to do handcuffed to the bed, but they made do.

They're brief and professional, and they say he doesn't have a concussion and that he doesn't need stitches for his face. He expects to be discharged and sent home, but they say instead they are going to page someone upstairs to come and talk to him before they feel good about letting him go.

He flops back on the pillows. It's just officer Singer with him now, his partner had left shortly after they'd gotten to the ER, another officer had come and picked him up. He wasn't sure why he was still being watched if there weren't any outstanding charges, but here they were.

He takes a small nap before he's awoken to a food tray at noon. He's got a mouthful of fried chicken when another white coat comes in to see him.

"Hello Mr. Winchester, I'm Dr. Fitzgerald." Dean nods at him and struggles to swallow his food so he can talk. He wipes his hand on his blanket and shakes the doctor's outstretched one. "I hear you had a bit of an incident this morning."

"Not much of an incident. Just some rude fucker at a bar who didn't know how to keep his mouth shut."

"Uh huh. Tell me Mr. Winchester, what did he say to you?"

"Some shit you wouldn't want your mom to hear."

"Do you live in the area Mr. Winchester?"

"Dean."

"Dean, do you live in the area?"

"Just passing through." The doctor nods and then takes a clipboard from officer Singer and flips through it. "Ah. Where were you before you went to the bar, Dean?"

"Takin care of a job."

"And what was that job?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you sir," he says, trying his most charming smile. The doctor looks at him with a concerned look.

"Does this job cause you significant stress?"

"Sometimes it feels like the fate of the world is on my shoulders," he says admonishes.

"What about other stressors in your life? Do you have a permanent residence? What about family?"

"I've got my brother. Dad died when I was eighteen, mom when I was four. I move around, place to place, sometimes on Sammy's couch. Though I hardly mind, he's got a beautiful girl to talk to."

"Where are you staying Dean?" This time it's Singer that asks, taking back his clipboard from the doctor who asks for the police station to fax those papers over to them.

"The motel down on duplex."

"Well, Dean. I've got a bed upstairs I'd like to admit you to. Would you be willing to stay with us tonight?" Dean blinks at him, he thought he had already been medically cleared.

"No thanks, I really need to get back to my brother."

"Maybe we could call your brother?"

"Why?"

"To let him know you're here, and that you're safe."

"Or you could just let me get on out of your way."

"I'm afraid that's not an option."

"Why? You got no reason to keep me here, the nurse already told me there was nothing wrong with me."

"Physically, no. You're in quite good health. If you don't agree to stay willingly I'm going to have to put you on an involuntary hold."

"For what? Kicking some jerk's ass?"

"Mr. Winchester please calm down."

"This is stupid!"

"Alright, five of haldol over here!"

A brunette in purple scrubs comes over with a syringe, and aw hell no this is not happening. There's sulfur _radiating_ off of her. No way is this hell spawn sticking him. He's trying to climb off the bed, slipping out of the handcuff he had subtly picked hours ago.

"Call a code!" He lunges for the arm holding the needle but is grabbed from behind by the officer before he reaches her.

"Exorcismis omnis immundus spiritus-" he feels two sharp pricks and then his vision is blurring and the sound around him feels so far away.

He could hear voices outside his door. He felt groggy. His limbs were heavy and his mind still felt hazy, like there was a fog still hanging over him.

"Mr. Winchester is a 22 year-old-male with no previous documented psychiatric history. He was brought in by police for altered mental status following an altercation in a bar. The man he attacked has decided not to press charges. He came into the ER last night around three am. He was pleasant with the staff until it was mentioned he was going to have to stay here, at which time he became agitated." He scoffed at that.

"He was unable to be verbally de-escalated and when one of our staff responded to our call for haldol he got physically violent and had to be restrained. He was held in a PRT for two and half minutes and given Ativan and Haldol IM. He was then placed in restraints and brought up to the unit."

"Does he have any family history of mental illness?"

"Patient denied. We are trying to get in touch with his brother who he listed as his emergency contact but so far we have been met with voicemail."

"Are his delusions persucatory, grandiose?"

"We aren't sure yet, we haven't been able to really interview him, but he started reciting latin when Masters tried to give his IM, and he seemed to be having AH at the bar when the altercation took place."

It took a few more minutes of chatter before the people outside got their collective singular testicle worked up enough to walk in. He tracked them with his eyes, six men, three in white coats, and two women, one in a white coat.

"Hello Mr. Winchester." It was the same man he had seen in the ER earlier. A lanky man with barely any substance to his frame; hell, he was pretty sure a strong gust of wind would blow the guy away.

"Dean." He corrects. He was pretty sure they'd already been over that.

"Okay Dean. I'm your doctor, Dr. Fitzgerald. The folks with me are a social worker," he points to a stern looking brunette who seems a bit casually dressed, "a therapist," he says pointing to another man flocked behind, "and the rest are students and we are all here to help you. Now, how are we feeling this morning?"

"Been better," he wiggles his fingers as much as he can given his restraints. "Could improve that a little by gettin' rid of these." He pulls on them, letting them jingle on the bed rail for emphasis.

"Do you feel like hurting yourself or anyone else right now, Dean?"

"Not unless you give me a reason to." He quips. "No, look man I just need to get home. Be with my brother. I'll behave, scout's honor." He winks at one of the girls, and then looks back to the doctor.

"You see Dean, I feel like you aren't being entirely honest with me. Do you mind if we give your brother a call?"

"I'd rather you just let me go."

"Well Dean, we have grounds to keep you at least seventy-two hours based on your behavior."

"It was a bar fight, I don't see you locking up every drunk bastard who decides he's tired of being told he's got cock sucker lips."

"That's not how the bartender said it went down when he told the police what happened."

"Look, I have a temper. At most, that gets me overnight in jail, not wherever this is."

"This is a psychiatric hospital Mr. Winchester."

"Dean." Either this guy was forgetful or just bull-headed.

"Do you have any history of mental illness Dean?"

"Nope."

"Do you have any history of medical issues?"

"No."

"Do you have any family history of mental illness?"

"I don't think I even have a present issue of mental illness."

"Do you ever see or hear things that other people don't seem to see or hear?"

"Alright, where do we stand on these," he says, jingling the restraints again. The doctor looks at one of the people towards the back and he turns and leaves.

"Dean, I'd like you to take some medications, would you be willing to take them orally?"

"What kind?"

"I'd like to give you some Ativan and Abilify."

"What are those?"

"It's an anxiety reliever and an anti-psychotic."

"No thanks. I don't have anxiety and I'm not psychotic."

"Alright." The man who had left comes back and hands the doctor a small silver key. "I feel comfortable releasing you from these, but I'm afraid we're going to have to keep you here for now. If after the seventy-two hours are up and I still don't feel comfortable releasing you, and you still disagree with being held, you will have the opportunity to go in front of a judge and explain why you think you should be released, and the judge will decide whether to release you or continue your hold. Do you understand?"

Dean nods, and the doctor comes forward, releasing his right leg first. He looks at Dean for a moment, and then releases the left one.

"While you are here you might find it beneficial to attend group and socialize with your peers. For today you are going to be on unit restriction because I feel like you are a flight risk. If you do well today we can discuss going down to meals and the gym Sunday. Do you understand?"

"Yeah." The doctor releases his left arm.

"Do you still feel calm and like you can be safe?" Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. Like if he were seriously wanting to hurt someone he would admit to it. He might as well just lock himself back in the damn things himself.

"Sure."

"Alright," he releases his right hand. "We'll be in touch Dean."

With that, the team makes their exit. Dean grumbles to himself and then sits up, stretching out his back in a way he hasn't been able to in what feels like days. He wonders what time it is when he hears movement to his left. He glances over and sees dark hair poking out from underneath sheets. His companion is then swallowed up completely when they decide to roll over and pull the blanket all the way over their head.

Dean makes use of his new found freedom and goes to take a leak in their bathroom. It's spotless, not a single indication that someone else uses it. Though, maybe his mysterious roommate doesn't use it. He's in a _psychiatric_ hospital after all. Do crazy people even shower? He realizes his belt is gone and he thumps his head against the wall. His boots have vanished as well.

He wanders out of his room, the moss green and brown tiles on the floor and yellow walls an unpleasant sight. Most of the beds he passes are unmade and empty, names on placards above doors with painted brown frames.

Someone in scrubs is walking down the hall with a clipboard.

"Hi, what's your name sir?" The little blonde girl asks.

"Dean."

"Nice to meet you Dean I'm Jo," she says, extending her dainty hand. He grasps it in his, feeling almost like he's shaking hands with a child the way his hand swallows hers.

"Look, I was strapped down back there," he says, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, "and I'm missing the boots I had in the ER."

"They're in our patient effects closet. We don't allow shoe laces or any garments with strings on our unit for patient safety."

"I don't need to be here though," he exclaims, but she seems completely unfazed.

"Well you'll have to take that up with your doctor DEAN. I don't have any control over whether or not you get to go home. I do have your breakfast tray though. Follow me?" She turns, her ponytail swinging behind her and he decides if he's stuck here anyway he might as well eat. "Given your outburst in the ER you'll be unit restricted until tomorrow morning, so your meals will have to be brought up to you."

He doesn't respond to her, he feels like anything he says here is being disregarded anyway, so he doesn't bother justifying himself.

"This is our common area," she says, gesturing to a sitting room with a TV where about six patients are gathered around. "The opposite side is where we hold group. That is at 9:30, 10:30 and 7, we recommend attendance but it isn't mandatory. We have a special room where you can go for quiet if you are feeling overwhelmed or anxious and that's over here," she says pointing him down a shorter hallway. "And over here in the common area is our snack closet. We have snack at 10, 3:30 and 8."

"And when can I-" he reaches for her shoulder but is cut off by her spinning him around and pinning his arm behind his back. "Ow- is that really necessary?!"

"Was grabbing me necessary, huh?" She counters, releasing her grip. She unlocks the little closet and pulls out a Styrofoam box and hands it to him. "Enjoy," she says, a small smirk on her face before she turns on her heel and heads behind the big desk that divides the two halls. Several stone faced people in scrubs are sitting behind it, typing and clicking away on computers, barely paying any attention to the people in front of them.

He heads back to his room, his socked feet thumping too heavily in his opinion on the floor. He can hear through the walls someone screaming, and he peeks in a room that damn well looks like it could belong to a hoarder with all the garbage that's stacked on the minimalist desk.

Maybe he should call Sam. Maybe he could help him get out of here. He decides that can wait until after he eats. When he enters his roommate is sitting up, cross legged on the bed. He's gazing at Dean's bed with his head tilted to the side.

"Quit looking at that," Dean scolds. His roommate turns away from him, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched. "Shit, sorry man." Dean leans over to drop his tray on his blanket before turning back to the man curled in on himself on the bed. "I didn't mean it like that, I - I just don't know what I'm doing here man." He places his hand on the other's shoulder but it's quickly shrugged off. Dean rubs his hand down his face and decides to start over. "I'm Dean."

Blue eyes hesitantly look up at him, then down to his outstretched hand. Tentatively, he shakes it, but makes no move to offer his own name. Dean raises an eyebrow expectantly, but it doesn't do anything on the name front. His roommate lets go of his hand and then uncurls, reaching for something wedged between his bed and the wall.

"Alright then," Dean mumbles, turning away and plopping down on his bed, grabbing his tray and popping it open. It looks about like what you would find at a continental breakfast a couple minutes before they are ready to pack the whole thing up, but he grabs a fork and digs in anyway. He's startled by a firm hand on his right shoulder, and looks up to see bight blue eyes looking at him.

"Can I help you?" He asks, and is met by a small smile in return, but it takes a moment too long for him to remove his hand from Dean's shoulder.

Dean looks down when he sees the dark haired man writing on what looks to be a dry erase board clutched in his hands. The white is smeared with black streaks from the many times whatever has been written on it has been erased, and the single word on it is slightly smeared from the way his too long sleeves had drug through the drying ink while he'd been writing. The darkened edge of the fabric tells him this isn't an uncommon problem.

He turns the board around for Dean to read, and he frowns at it a little. He looks back up at the man who looks like he's barely over eighteen, with dark hair that is way past needing a trim and upturned bowed lips. He's pointing to himself, and Dean looks back at the board, realizing the odd word is actually a name.

"Castiel?"

 **Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed reading as those motivate me to keep making content.**

 **You can visit me on tumblr at cassiel-of-thursday , I answer questions, post about stories, and take prompts on fandoms I'm in (Magi and Supernatural are the big ones right now).**

 **3**

 **Cassie**


	2. But we can't let it take us down

"Hi Castiel, I'm Dean." Castiel smiles at him, a wide gummy smile. "Alright.." Dean says, feeling a little awkward at the prolonged silence. "Do you not talk man?" Castiel shakes his head, a sad smile on his face. "Have you ever talked?" This time he nods. "What happened?"

Castiel looks at him for a moment before wiping at his board with his sleeve and uncapping the marker, leaving the lid caught between his lips. His brow is pinched in concentration as he scribbles. He looks at it for a moment before wiping the board clean again and starting over. Dean leans back against the wall and picks at the threads on his faded blanket, feeling self-conscious just watching the other man write. He glances up from under his lashes, checking on him without being obvious about it, only to catch him erasing his words again.

"You don't have to tell me," Dean says at last, and Castiel looks up at him. Finally, with a frustrated sigh he wipes it clean one last time and writes, his forehead wrinkling with concentration and the whiteboard shaking in his grip. He looks at Dean apologetically as he flips it, revealing just a few words in heavy scrawl.

'It's a long story.'

"Well, I might be here awhile," he says, glancing up at the ceiling. It's perfectly flat, the lights built in to lie even with the plaster, leaving no footholds for someone to tie a noose around. When he looks back down Castiel is gone and he frowns. He hadn't heard a thing.

He wanders to the bathroom, noting the way the toilet is flush against the wall, a button rather than a lever signaling the flush. The beds themselves are drilled into the floor, a simple headboard rising a few inches above the mattress and the footboard even with it. There's a simple desk on each side of the room, though he notes Castiel seems to have no belongings. His bed is made, nary a wrinkle in it, and the whiteboard he was carrying is gone.

Dean supposed since he doesn't talk, he took it with him so he could communicate. He wonders a little bit too long what the other man's voice sounds like. He wonders why he's here. Is it just the muteness? Or is there something else brimming under the surface. Is he going to try and kill Dean in his sleep? Or is he here just as wrongly as Dean himself.

He picks up his discarded breakfast and digs in.

Castiel doesn't show up again for awhile.

The nurse comes by, saying she has meds for him. He accepts the tylenol and nothing else. To her credit, she does try and convince him to take them.

But he isn't crazy, so he isn't taking them.

He lays down for a nap after that, not knowing what to do; he's reluctant to go out and talk to anybody.

They come by and holler that they are about to start group therapy, but he refuses.

He doesn't need therapy; he isn't crazy.

Castiel shows back up a little before noon. He's sitting on his bed looking out the window peacefully when Dean wakes up.

"Did you go to their group therapy thing?" Dean asks. Castiel shakes his head.

"Can I call you Cas?" Cas grins, a soft, sweet smile that makes him look yearsyounger than when he's frowning. He looks down, his hair falling in his face and writes a few words.

'My brother calls me Cassie :P' When Dean looks at him after reading it he sticks his tongue out childishly.

"I bet you like emojies don't you," Dean teases, to his surprise, Cas nods emphatically before wiping away his words and replacing them with new ones.

'I like Cas better'

"Where did Castiel come from anyway?" Dean asks, folding his arms behind his head and turning to look at Cas. It's a little hard to read while he's looking at it sideways like that, so he squints slightly when Cas flips the board back around. Cas frowns at him and then turns the board, but he turns it the wrong way so now he's just looking at it upside down. When Dean's brow twists further as he attempts to read Cas looks down at it confused. He blushes bright red when he sees his fumble, and tries to turn it around so fast he ends up knocking it into the floor. Dean laughs, a little louder than was probably necessary, and the nurse walking by with a clipboard looks at him funny, and he waves at her abashedly.

With a firm handle on his board and it facing the correct direction for Dean to read, he deciphers what is left of the writing.

'Don't know. Mom never explained.'

"I'm named after my grandmother." Dean offers. Cas looks confused. "I know, grand _mother_. Sam was the lucky one and got named after our grand _father_."

'It works for you.' Cas says, and he is looking to the side, determined not to meet Dean's gaze.

"No offense, but Cas works for you too." He says, and Cas finally does look at him before mouthing the word thanks

The next time Dean looks up Cas is gone again. He decides to get up and look around independently. He pokes his head out of their room and down the hall. There are two people sitting in large lounge chairs at the end of the hall, two girls: a blonde and a brunette. The brunette waves at him with a wicked smile.

"Heya Dean-o," she calls and Dean straightens. "Relax, it's on your door." He looks to his side where surely enough, in block letters, is 'Dean W.' in the placard. He pulls the paper out, crumpling it up and shoving it in his pocket, leaving it empty. "Paranoid much?" She says and he glares at her.

"This is Meg," the blonde next to her says. "I'm Ruby."

"So who'd you kill?" Meg asks.

"If you aren't careful, you." He says. He thinks he means it a joke.

"Ooh scary," she teases.

"She means, what are you in for?" Ruby asks.

"Bar fight."

"So you're pretty and dumb," Meg says, her red lips parting as she sticks her tongue out at her. It's not cute when she does it.

"I'm here because I was casting spells on my neighbors," Ruby offers. "I get to leave Monday though. I realized I'm not a witch, and it's rude to throw animal carcasses at people." Dean gives her a look that says 'well duh.' "Hey, I was sick okay. Happens to the best of us. Even you."

"I'm not crazy," Dean snaps.

"And I'm the queen," Meg says. "Anorexia and SI with a plan." She says, pointing to herself. He now notices her ill fitting clothes, and the velcro pulled tight through her belt loops. No belts. Right. God this place sucked. "So I repeat, who'd _you_ kill?"

"No one," he rubs his hand through the short hair at the back of his neck. "I fought a guy who was being a dick and the cops brought me here."

"Well I'm sure you'll figure it out big boy," Meg says. Dean has had quite enough of this conversation, so he turns and moves on. The girls continue chatting behind him, and he's pretty sure he hears something about his ass, but he pretends not to notice. Meg looks like she could eat someone alive, and anyone that plays with animal carcasses just isn't someone he wants to mess with.

He winds up in the common area where, surprisingly, no one is watching the TV that is running. They are all gather around a table in the group side playing cards.

"Dean Winchester," a petite red-head says, and seriously, is there anyone here who doesn't know his name.

"Anna," the blonde beside her scolds, the words slurred around the piece of candy rolling around in his mouth. "She's nosy that's all." Dean nods slowly, not quite comfortable surrounded by all these people.

"Have a sit-down. We're playing strip poker. Whoever loses has to be the human sacrifice tonight." She says and Dean is about to run out the fucking door, and it must show on his face because she blanches for a second and starts sputtering before someone else saves her.

"Charlie is teasing. We are playing uno but the sacrifice thing holds."

"Enough out of you two." The woman who interrupts is brunette with kind eyes. "I'm Hannah. It's nice to meet you Dean. Please, join us. It's near the only thing we can do to kill time when group isn't going on." He takes an open seat next to Charlie who gives him her hand and introduces herself, all bubbly smiles and bright energy.

"Welcome to the psychosis unit Winchester," she says.

They play for over an hour, Dean winning more matches than anyone and being accused of a great many ways of cheating. Charlie makes pop-culture references in response to about everything anyone says, and then stares blankly at them when they either don't know the reference, or don't understand the relevance. She claps Dean on the shoulder and declares him her best friend when he gets her Star Trek reference.

Anna is nice, but a little peculiar, idly following something around the ceiling though he can never catch exactly what it is. Gabriel talks a mile a minute and is always popping candy like there's no tomorrow. Hannah is very calm, very well mannered, and occasionally her hands ghost over her stomach and a weary sadness takes over her eyes, in complete contrast with her gentle smile. He's a little embarrassed at himself for the way he had thought about the people here because now he realizes that's all they are, just people. They're people struggling with something not many people understand.

"Why are you guys here? You seem so.." he falters with how he wants to finish his sentence.

"Normal?" Gabriel finishes for him. Dean's face is hot, but he nods. "I know it may be shocking to you buck-o but crazy people are just people. I myself am bi-polar as fuck apparently. Brother brought me here when I sold my house to buy a house boat so I could travel the seas with my girlfriend of three days who I also was convinced I would marry on the coast of Japan. Apparently those are not well thought out choices." He says, using wide gestures and exaggerated air quotes.

"PTSD from when my parents sent me to a conversion camp for being in love with ladies," Charlie says. Her tone is light but he can see the darkness lurking behind her eyes, pain just barely concealed by her bright demeanor.

"Postpartum depression. I tried to drown my child, my husband brought me here." Hannah says quietly, her hands coming to rest over her stomach again.

"Anna has hallucinations and catatonia. But you should see her art!" Sarah, a girl with dark curly hair says. Her tone is bright but her expression is devoid of emotion. "I've got depression with psychotic features."

"Why are you here Dean?" Anna says, finally turning her attention back to the group, her cards from the game long since finished still held between dainty fingers.

"Misunderstanding," he says. He's about to elaborate when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, dark hair retreating down his hallway. "Cas!" He calls, leaping out of his chair and over the table like it's a hurdle at a track and field race. "Cas wait up!"

"And that's that," Gabriel says, tossing his lollipop stick into the trash, breaking the awkward silence left in Dean's enigmatic exit.

Dean about busts his ass running down the hallway in his socks. The floors are freshly cleaned and slick, and he catches himself on the wall, but not without colliding his cheek into it. Even with all of Dean's effort, Cas is in the room before he's even making his way down the hall. Cas is sitting with his back to him on his perfectly made bed when Dean walks in. He's stopped in his tracks, standing, gaping in the doorway when he hears the soft sniffles and gently shaking shoulders. It takes him a moment to get he feet that were just sliding along the floor with ease to unglue themselves from the floor now.

"Cas?" he calls out, but the only response he gets is an angry swiping of those too long sleeves over red rimmed eyes. He kneels in front of him for a few seconds but quickly becomes frustrated with Cas pretending he's not there and fumbles his way up onto the bed behind the other man. "Talk to me?" Dean asks, his tone as gentle as he can make it.

Cas finally looks at him to give him a withering glare, watered down further by his glassy eyes, the blue even brighter surrounded by the irritated red.

"Fine, write to me." Cas looks back down at his hands, shaking softly in his lap. Not thinking, Dean takes one in his own, lacing the long, slender fingers between his own calloused ones. Cas doesn't seem to mind the contact, and it gives Dean the courage to wrap his other arm around Cas' shoulders, prompting the other man to lean in to his side, his head resting on Dean's shoulder and messy hair tickling his chin. "It's gonna be okay Cas," Dean promises. "It's gonna be okay."

When Cas calms, Dean awkwardly disentangles himself and returns to his side of the room. Cas tries to apologize but Dean shuts it down. They spend the rest of the day chatting off and on abut superficial topics. Cas offers up plant based puns which make Dean laugh a little harder than they should. It's some of the best company he's had in a long time, and the man doesn't even speak, but there's something about the way he smiles, whether it's the barely there upturn of his lips, or his thousand watt gummy smile he makes when Dean does what Sam used to call his unicorn laugh.

At the end of the day, Dean feels like he made a friend.

The next day when he wakes up Cas is gone again, though this time the bed is still ruffled from him being in it.

"Mr. Winchester?" Dean looks to the door, realizing that what had woken him was the doctor rapping on the door frame. Dean groans and crushes the pillow under his head, not for long, seeing as with his face pressed like that he can't exactly breathe. "Can we talk Dean?" When Dean looks up he's already walking into his room so he rolls his eyes.

"Sure, come on in," he mutters sarcastically.

"Mr. Fizzles and I heard you refused your medicine yesterday."

"Who in the fuck is Mr. Fizzles?"

"Sorry, I just came off the child unit. He's my sock puppet I use to make the children more comfortable."

"There are children here?" Dean balks.

"People of all ages can suffer mental illness Dean."

"Right. Well I'm not one of those people. So can I get on out of here? I was planning on visiting Sam this week."

"Sam is your brother, right?" The doctor confirms. Dean nods. "Sam is on a plane over here actually. Ellen got in touch with him yesterday afternoon. He seems very worried about you, Dean."

"Son of a bitch," he growls. "What kind of bullshit did you feed him huh?" Dean asks, standing, ending up right in the doctor's face. "Sam doesn't have time for this circus you're running here and whatever story you fed to him. I'm fine! You're all wasting your time."

"Sam doesn't feel that way. Now please, calm down. I don't want to have to inject you again." Dean throws his hands up before letting himself slump back down into the mattress. "We are just trying to help Dean. We are going to meet with Sam, and then he'll be free to visit with you, doesn't that sound nice?" When he isn't met with a response he continues on. "I have to warn you Dean, if you continue to refuse your meds I'll be forced to meet with a committee, and if they agree with me, you won't be able to refuse them anymore. I don't want to have to do that."

"And I don't want to take shit I don't need," Dean says, meeting Dr. Fitzgerald's gaze. For a meek looking man, he holds his own well. He didn't back down when Dean was in his face, and he's not relinquishing any control in their stare down. Finally Dean gives up, turning to lay his head on the pillow and stretch out. "When is Sam coming?"

"Around lunch. He found an overnight flight."

"This is dumb."

"I also think it would be beneficial for you to attend group, I heard you met with some other patients yesterday. How did that go?"

"It went fine."

"Did it go as you had expected?" Dean doesn't answer, so he repeats his question.

"They were just a little weird." he finally admits.

"Not quite what you pictured was it?"

"No, alright? I thought it'd be a lot different but it doesn't matter. I'm not one of the and I'm not gonna play your game."

"We're trying to help."

"Bite me," Dean mutters.

"All right Dean. I'll be seeing you."

Jo comes down the hall hollering that it's breakfast time, but Dean doesn't go. He stays in bed, studying the minute irregularities in the paint, drawing over the wallpaper trim in his mind and really just waiting for Cas to come back.

It's quiet in that half hour. Voices don't echo down the hall, there's no one pacing, no footsteps thudding heavily. Jo comes by once with her clipboard and offers him a small smile, and he kind of feels like a dick for ignoring her. It's 8:35 when the noise returns, or at least that's what the clock he can see hanging in the hall says. It's ten minutes later that Cas pads silently back into their room, whiteboard in hand and pen tucked behind his ear. He waves at Dean when he enters, and Dean gives an aborted movement of his own hand before dropping it back to his forehead. Cas frowns at him. He can hear the other scribbling, but makes no move to turn towards it. He's surprised when Cas climbs up on the foot of his bed and leans over him, holding the whiteboard in front of his face.

'What's wrong?'

Cas is settled between his legs, his arm braced by Dean's ribs. "Dude, get off," he says but there's no fire behind it. There's not really anything in his tone. Cas presses his hand against Dean's chest, whiteboard discarded by Dean's head. Cas is looking at him, eyes wide and expression earnest and that breaks through his defense. "All right. I'm good." Cas doesn't look convinced, and refuses to move for another half a minute until Dean pushes him over gently. Cas responds by rolling off the bed and into the floor, spread out like a starfish and faking a wounded expression. Dean tosses his board down to him but Cas misses it and it clatters to the floor.

'What happened?'

Dean hadn't realized Cas had gotten up, but he's standing beside his bed now.

"My brother is coming here." Cas' expression goes dark, and his previous sentence is only half erased behind the new words when he flips the board back around.

'Does he hurt you?'

"What? No. Sam's the best. He and dad used to fight all the time and he didn't want to help me find what killed him but he's still my brother." Cas looks confused. "Do you not have siblings?"

'I do.' Before Dean can respond he's flipping his board back and writing, his words sloppier than usual with his haste. 'What do you mean what killed him?' Dean's mouth opens with an "o" when he realizes where he'd lost Cas, though he realizes once again Cas has diverted the attention away from inquiries about himself.

"You're going to tell me about your life one of these days," Dean warns. Cas quirks an eyebrow at him but doesn't move to say anything else. "Dad was in a car accident, but I'm pretty sure there was a demon involved. When I went to tow his car it reeked of sulfur." Again, Cas doesn't respond. "You don't believe me." Dean states flatly.

'Did you tell the doctors that?' Cas writes and Dean shakes his head vehemently.

"Of course not. They already think I'm crazy without saying that."

'Are demons all there is?' Dean looks at him for a moment, deciding how much of the story he wants to unload on the poor guy. Well, it's not like Cas can TELL anyone what he's talking about...

"No. There's ghosts. Werewolves though I've never seen one the lore is strong. Vampires are up for debate. Angels aren't real," Cas looks saddened by that so Dean amends his statement. "Well, no one has seen any anyway. Not that I could find."

He keeps going, talking to Cas about all the research he's found, about all the hauntings he's stopped, the graves he's dug and how much of a back ache that is. Cas takes it all in stride, interrupting with small inquiries or clarifications, and it feels good to finally have someone to talk to about it. Since this all started he's been on his own; Sam never wanted to be a part of the hunting, he said he had to get back to school after the funeral. He argued that their dad had died because he was a drunk who got behind the wheel, and wouldn't listen when Dean tried to explain why he thought otherwise.

He used to keep some posted about how he was doing, because he knew if it was the other way around he would want to know Sam was okay even if he didn't buy into what was going on. Hell he already does and Sam is just at college. That's just how he is as an older brother he supposes; he worries and hopes he's safe. Hopes none of the dark creatures slinking around in the night get a hold of him, hope life leaves him alone so he can marry his girl and get on with chasing the stars like he's done since they were little. He's not even bitter Sam doesn't want to be with him, not really. Sure it would be nice to have someone around, but he wants what's best for Sam. What he does is dangerous, and he's been arrested more than once, especially early on when he wasn't as good at sneaking around and was slower about getting the case closed.

Maybe he and Cas could be friends even when he gets out of here. He wouldn't mind. Though he supposes phone calls would be out of the question considering Cas doesn't speak. They could text though... Eventually they call for lunch and Dean decides he'll go down. He asks Cas if he's coming, but he just shakes his head and lies down, tucking himself in under the covers. Dean waves, though he's pretty sure Cas isn't looking anymore.

The cafeteria reminds him way too much of high school. The trays and lines, the lunch ladies scooping meals that already look like they've been ingested and regurgitated. He'd kill for a damn burger right now instead of this slop. But hey, it's better than going hungry he supposes, though he's really not sure what the lump on his plate is supposed to be. He only gets halfway through when the phone rings, one of the staff picking it up and telling him his brother is here.

Dean tosses his mystery meal in the trash jubilantly and is on her heels as she takes him back upstairs.

Sam is standing by the nurses's station when the girl unlocks the door for him. It shuts behind him with a loud clank, rattling in it's frame slightly.

"Sammy."

"Hi Dean," his brother greets, and Dean walks up to him before going in for a hug, wrapping one arm around his neck and damn, has he always been so tall? His shoulder stretches to accommodate the height difference, but he doesn't care, holding on tight until patting Sam on the back a couple times and pulling away, almost immediately missing the contact. Dean would never admit it, but he enjoyed being pressed up against someone. Feeling their heat against him. Feeling the rise and fall of their chest.

It's been awhile since he's had a solid source of that.

"Sorry they dragged you all the way over here. I've been telling them it's just a misunderstanding," Dean explains but Sam's forehead wrinkles and he crosses his arms over his broad shoulders, the material of his suit stretching with the strain.

"Dean, I think it's a good thing that you're here."

"I'm sorry. You what?"

 **So this little story has been stewing in my head for a long time but I never wrote because I didn't think anyone else would be remotely interested. It's very self-indulgent and my summaries are always garbage. This story is very near and dear to my heart and I hope if you are reading that you are enjoying and don't hesitate to tell me what you think! I love hearing back from everyone.**

 _Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed reading as those motivate me to keep making content._

 _You can visit me on tumblr at_ _cassiel-of-thursday_ _, I answer questions, post about stories, and take prompts on fandoms I'm in (Magi and Supernatural are the big ones right now)._

 _3_

 _Cassie_


	3. Down this road

"What the fuck do you mean you think it's good I'm here?" Dean asks, his voice raised. Sam holds up his hands like somehow that's going to calm him down and damn if that doesn't just amp his blood pressure way on up.

"You've been off ever since dad died. I don't even know where you are half the time. You're getting into trouble and I don't know what to do anymore, Dean."

"How about you keep your nosy ass out of my business. You said you didn't want to be involved, so don't be involved!" Jo approaches him then, putting a hand on his arm which he immediately jerks away from, "Don't fucking touch me."

"You need to calm down," she says the same time Sam decides to butt in again.

"What crawled up yours Dean?"

"This place!" He's gesturing wildly and the still rational part of his mind says he probably _does_ look like a ranting insane person but he really can't be bothered to care right now. "I don't need. To. Be. Here. Why don't any of you get that!" Sam tries to say something to him but he doesn't bother listening. He's stalking off to his room, ignoring the pleas from his brother to listen. Instead, he just raises his middle finger over his head without bothering to look back.

Cas' bed is still rumpled, but he doesn't actually see Cas anywhere.

"Damn it," he curses, running his hands through his hair and pulling roughly at the ends. Cas wanders out of the bathroom then, Dean bordering on tearing his hair out and angry tears in his eyes. Cas is stock still for a moment before rushing over to Dean, his hands covering his own and easing their grip before dragging them down away from his head. He tries to pull away but Dean tightens his grip and pulls him in.

Cas' head tucks itself beneath his chin and Dean can't help but inhale. It's not a special scent, generic shampoo covers anything unique. The hair is damp like Cas just got out of the shower and occasionally it drips to the floor with a small plink. When a drop hits his arm and it's warm he realizes part of is the tears that started down his cheeks.

They stay that way for a good couple minutes, Dean gripping Cas' sides, Cas' arms hung loosely around Dean's shoulders, his grip far less desperate. Dean's shaking in his grasp, soft sobs falling past his lips. He didn't realize how much it would hurt for Sam to admit to feeling that way about him. How alone it would make him feel. But here, with Cas, the ache is just bearable. His warmth is like a cool pack to a blistering wound; it's soothing and it tones down the painful throb.

Dean does calm, and he pulls away, embarrassed at his behavior, but Cas smiles gently, not a trace of judgment in his eyes. They're darker today, more ocean than sky blue. His gaze flicks around the room, not falling on one place for too long before they settle on his board, trying to jump ship off the side of the bed. He grabs it and scribbles before looking at Dean apologetically.

'Have to go talk with the doctor.' His face is scrunched up and he looks uncomfortable just thinking about it.

"Yeah okay." Dean's voice is rough and he coughs, trying to normalize it, trying to make it less obvious that he had been crying into Cas' shoulder. "I'll be here." Cas nods at him before walking out the door, his footsteps silent. Dean wonders how that's possible considering he sounds like he weighs two tons walking through the halls, but he also isn't trying to be quiet. He tiptoes around the room experimentally and realizes yes, it is possible not to be ridiculously loud, but it takes way too much effort.

He sits on the bed and then a minute later there's a knock at the door. He looks up before responding to see Sam's moose head peeking around the door frame.

"Hey Dean," he greets, his voice soft. Dean feels the urge to square his shoulders, to act tough and angry, but he finds he just doesn't have it in him. He puts his elbows on his knees and lets his head fall into his hands.

"What do you want Sam?"

"I'm about to talk to your doctor," Sam offers.

"Wonderful," Dean grumbles.

"Dean..."

Dean doesn't respond, he just sits there despondently.

"I just want to help Dean."

"Then help me get out of here."

"I can't," Sam says, and then there's the tell-tale sound of retreating footsteps.

An indeterminable amount of time passes before anyone comes to bother him again. It's neither Sam nor Cas that knocks next, it's the damn doctor again.

"Hey Dean," he calls. Dean looks up and sees a small paper cup in his hand, like the ones burger joints use to hold their ketchup.

"I ain't taking that shit," he says before dropping his head again. Dr. Fitzgerald sighs and then there's weight accompanying his on the bed.

"Dean I think this will really help you," surprisingly, it's Sam's voice, and he peeks up to see his moose of a brother looking down at him, his forehead all wrinkled up in concern, his hands folded in his lap, the demure posture making his brother almost look small.

"I don't need it."

"They're going to start making you take it, Dean," Sam says. "And you aren't going to get out until you take it."

"I don't need it," Dean grits out. "I'm not crazy. I'm not Charles Manson or Norman Bates or-or"

"No one is saying that you are. Dean, I've taken anti-depressants. It doesn't make you less of a person."

"When were you on those?" Dean asks, sitting up straight and staring at his brother. Sam is looking at the far wall, making it hard for Dean to decipher him.

"After dad died, and you left. It was hard. I didn't know anyone at school, and I needed help. I still see someone every now and then. It's normal Dean," he says, his tone and eyes pleading with Dean to understand. "What's not normal is what's going on now."

"What is so not normal to you?" Dean asks, his voice bitter and cutting.

"This brigade you're on. Scavenging the country looking for ghosts. People don't do that Dean." Sam pleads.

"Because they don't know what's out there Sam. They don't know about the things that killed dad."

"Nothing killed Dad. Do you even hear yourself?" Sam asks, he kneels in front of Dean, his hand resting on Dean's knee. "Dean, dad died in a car wreck. His blood alcohol was over point two. A demon didn't kill him. His own poor choices did."

"You haven't been there Sam, I've stopped poltergeists and hauntings, I've killed werewolves. I'll give you twenty bucks if I ever see a vampire but that's beside the point."

"Dean you haven't killed anything! All you've done is damn near killed yourself," Dean tries to say something but Sam cuts him off, standing abruptly his arms flailing like he's trying to fly. "Every day, every time the phone rings and it's a number I don't know I pray to _God_ it's not some hospital telling me to come claim your body. Dean, you scared the hell out of me last year. Nobody could tell me if you were ever going to wake up and it barely slowed down this- this tirade you've been on and for what?! It's not real, Dean. There aren't ghosts or werewolves. There's nothing out there paranormal. Just look at the Ghostbusters program. It's been on thirteen years and they don't have a bit of proof!"

"That's because they're idiots. They go after the touristy shit for no reason. Ran into them in Tennessee on some haunted war grounds."

"It's not haunted!" Sam is exasperated now, his tone getting desperate. "There's no evidence of any of this! I have talked to these people you 'saved' Dean. They don't think anything paranormal happened. Just some suspiciously young FBI agent asking them a bunch of weird questions. Which by the way, that's illegal Dean. You could get serious jail time for that!"

"It's not like I get caught."

"Dean, your criminal record does not look good. You've got breaking and entering, trespassing, traffic tickets, GRAVE DESECRATION I mean what the hell?"

"Whatever. Cas believes me."

"Who is Cas?"

"My roommate."

"Uh huh. And where is he?"

"Talking to his doctor or some shit. I'm not his keeper. He comes and goes when he pleases."

Sam's lips flatten into a tight line and he stands, going back to Dr. Fitzgerald's side who Dean hadn't been aware was still lurking in the room. Dean can't faintly hear Sam's murmured words.

"I don't like that, can he change rooms?"

"I don't think that's necessary." The doctor replies which quells the outburst building in Dean's mouth.

"He's feeding into these delusions," Sam urges back.

"Shut up Sam. Shut the fuck up, okay? You don't get to walk in here and decide how everything goes. You have no rights over me, I can make my own damn decisions and right now, I want you to get the hell out of here."

"Dean-"

"Get out. I don't want to talk to you until you're ready to pick me up." Sam takes a deep breath in and sighs.

"Alright Dean," then to the doctor he says, "keep me informed. Please?" Dean groans because he KNOWS he's giving the doctor his puppy face that no one can say no to but he doesn't actually pay attention to the doctor's response. Right now, he just wants Cas to come back.

Cas doesn't come back until after they bring Dean his dinner. He hasn't left his bed since Sam was here. He'd tried to come back after his meeting with the oh so important doctors, but Dean ignored him. Eventually, Sam left, and only part of Dean felt bad about it.

When Cas came back he looked like someone had kicked his puppy. He kept his eyes downcast but his lip kept quivering ever so slightly as he paced the room. Dean couldn't take it for very long before he took Cas' hand in his own and pulled him down to the bed. They both had shitty days it seems, they're allowed this. He pulls the blanket up and around Cas' shoulders, tucking him in the way he had been the morning they'd met.

That night, Cas' slightly unkempt bed stayed empty.

The next morning it was a nurse that was not Jo. This time it was a young Asian kid who barely looked like he was out of high school. He introduced himself as Kevin, and the same as the previous two days tried to convince him to take the medications. Dean, as with the previous two days, adamantly refused. Kevin sighed before telling him he would waste them.

Dean sits up and then realizes that Cas is gone. Dean's chest feels hollow knowing Cas had slipped out of the bed at some point, but then it's overpowered by a desperate need to pee. He opens the bathroom door, only to be met by a very wet and mostly naked roommate. His eyes can't help but follow one of the water droplets as it cruises down a surprisingly well-muscled chest, down to the sharp hipbones resting just above his towel. He feels his tongue dart out and marks a path across his lower lip without any conscious brain activity telling it to do that, and Cas turns a brilliant shade of scarlet all the way down to his collarbone that juts out just begging to be marked and bitten.

Dean can't remember being this easily turned on since he was in high school and he saw a girl in a thong for the first time. His half-mast boner is instantly killed when Cas turns around and he sees the marred flesh, the raised lines crisscrossing his back in all shades from pale shimmery white to angry burgundy. Cas turns around again and then makes an aborted movement as he tries to turn again, not able to decide which side of him is more embarrassing to expose to Dean. His eyes are wide and frightened and his mouth opens and closes like a fish trying to breathe above water, futile and painful.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean whispers. "It's okay." Cas' eyes are swimming with tears, and it makes the blue stand out so brightly even in the abhorrent lighting, the color sparking like lightning between quick blinks as Cas tries to will away the tears. Dean is frozen in his spot until Cas pushes past him desperately and dives under his covers without putting any actual clothes on. Dean reaches, making a move to approach Cas when there is another God forsaken knock at the door.

"Mr. Winchester? Can we talk out here a minute?" Dean looks at the man speaking,

He's a long lanky guy with a graphic tee and flannel cut off on instead of a scrub top, an artfully done mullet, standing at a computer. Dean looks back to his roommate who is a lump on his bed and then back to the hall.

"Yeah fine," he says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of the jeans he really needs to wash.

"The name's Ash," he says, extending a hand to Dean. Dean shakes it and promptly returns his own hand to his pocket where he notes a distinct lack of lighter, which better be safe dammit that was his dad's, and wallet. Which, well, has a fake id and no cash so they can keep that useless thing.

"I'm here to talk to ya about court," Ash says, fingers flying over the keyboard. "They say anything to ya about it yet?" Dean shakes his head. "All right, well this ain't normal court where you'd go if you get in trouble with the law ya know, this is just about your committal status. You catchin me?" Dean nods slowly. "This is your chance to plead your case to the judge if you think ya shouldn't be here. Though I do see you've got quite the criminal add up here too," he says with a whistle.

"You shouldn't be able to see that," Dean says, walking around to Ash's side so he can see the screen and yeah, he has quite a list there... Which makes him question AGAIN, why the hell is he here and not in prison? Not that he wants to be in prison... but at least that would make sense to him.

"That's neither here nor there amigo," Ash quips, minimizing the page. "So, you goin or not?"

"There's a choice?"

"Well ya, you can forfeit your right to go, and get an auto extended stay. Or you can try and get on outta here, it's up to you. And well the judge man."

"I wanna go," Dean says firmly.

"Alright man, fight the power. Just sign here please," he says, handing him a portable touch screen that transfers his wonky signature to the computer screen. "Court starts at 9:15, we'll come get you then."

With that, Ash walks away, flicking his mullet behind him dramatically, the wheels of the computer groaning loudly as he retreats down the hall and swipes his key card at the door, disappearing beyond Dean's boundaries.

'Finally,' he thinks. 'I'm going to get the fuck out of here.'


	4. Where all our colors run together

After a well-deserved minor hallway celebration at the news of his impending release, Dean sauntered back into his room, his confident gait faltering upon seeing the vaguely Cas shaped ball shaking under the covers. Dean practically feels the energy seep out of him, his soul reaching for the other's, his heart squeezing painfully under the assault of feelings. He pretends to be a hard ass, and a lazy shit, and like he couldn't give a fuck because that's how you stay alive. Caring and giving a damn, getting attached is how you get yourself killed and drug through the mud. It's how dad went down and he'll be damned if it gets him too. Though, he supposes, a locked ward might be a safe enough place to care a little...

He sits down on the edge of the bed, resting his hand on what he assumes is Cas' shoulder.

"Cas? Hey, you're getting your bed all wet buddy," Dean offers, an attempt to coax the other out. Cas just shakes his head. Or, Dean thinks he does. It's hard to tell. "Come on, Cas. You're gonna get pneumonia or something."

Cas pokes his head out, all damp and sticking in every damn direction, just so he can glare at Dean.

"What?" Dean asks, to which Cas responds by huffing and retreating beyond the blanket again. "Will you get dressed if I leave?" He offers. Cas doesn't respond for awhile, and Dean isn't sure if it's contemplation or rejection. He's about to give up, pulls his hand away when Cas gives a small motion of assent. "Alright! I'll just uh, I'll step out, go check in with the others, you should come. I think they'll like you."

Dean makes his exit then, pulling the door shut behind him. He grumbles when his eyes fall on his name, the placard refilled from when he'd taken it down the first time. He grabs it, crumpling it up and stuffing it in his pockets because hey, it's rude to litter and there's no trash can nearby. There's not a lot of people out, only Gabriel and Anna are out at the moment, Gabriel playing solitaire, and Anna staring absently on the window, unmoving; she resembles a statue in all ways except the subtle rise and fall of her chest.

"Mr. Misunderstanding," Gabriel calls out without looking up.

"Hey Gabe," Dean says, plopping into a seat a space away from both Gabriel and Anna. "Anna," he acknowledges, though she extends no such courtesy. He frowns at her, but she remains as she is, unblinking and unfazed.

"Catatonia," Gabe offers, swiping his cards up into his hand. "Unwinnable deck. She's typically worse in the morning. Before meds and all that. What does she think about I wonder?" Gabriel questions aloud, his gaze fond a she looks at the red-head, her hair up in a messy top bun, her hazel eyes unfocused, unknowing of his attention. "I can't imagine sitting still that long, manic or not."

"What's manic?" Dean asks. Gabriel shrugs.

"Varies. Different for every person. Mine, poor impulse control, poor sleep, hyperverbal, hypersexual, you know." Dean nods, though he really doesn't know. "Your poker face is shit kid," Gabriel says. "I talk too much and too fast, I'm inappropriate sexually and screw around too much. I buy expensive and impractical things, I don't think, I make poorly constructed decisions. Etc. Or at least that's what the doc says."

"You don't agree?" Dean asks, wondering if he can find some solidarity in his displeasure.

"Eh. I do and I don't. Some of it is just me, but it's got my folks worried, so here I am. I aim to please after all."

"I'm sure you do."

"You still convinced you don't belong bucko?" Deans murmurs his agreement, his eyes wandering back down the hall to see if Cas decides to join them.

"Anna?" Someone asks, she's staff, Dean can tell that much by her badge, but he's not sure if she's nurse, doctor of something else. Her tag says 'Bela T.'. "Are you ready to go?"

"Wasting your time," Gabe says from beside her.

"Thank you Gabriel," she bites back, her accent sharp. "Alright, I'm going to take you down now Anna." Bela pops the locks on the wheels of the armchair Anna is in and proceeds to wheel it down the hall, towards the exit. Anna's eyes give a slow blink, but don't change their unmoving fixation.

"Where's she going?" Dean asks.

"ECT," Gabriel responds, laying out another game on the table. "Electro-convulsive therapy. They medically induce seizures. It's supposed to help bring her out of her head or something. I dunno, I've never done it."

"Seizures? That's barbaric!" Dean exclaims, but Gabriel only shrugs in response.

"If it helps, it helps." Dean lets his head fall back against the top of the chair, closing his eyes. It's quiet.

"Mm. What time is it?" Dean asks.

"You got two eyes don't you?" Gabriel quips, to which Dean responds by raising his middle finger. Gabriel chuckles lowly, "seven-twenty."

"That early, huh." Dean mumbles. He's pretty used to only getting a couple hours of sleep, but for some reason he still feels sluggish. He kicks his feet up on the table, which makes Gabriel squall indignantly and shove them off. Dean grumbles at him before turning sideways in his chair and letting his feet dangle onto the one beside him. He dozes off to the quiet slide and slap of Gabriel's card game.

When he wakes up, it's to Jo calling breakfast. He cranes his neck to look at the clock behind him. It's only been forty minutes, but he feels remarkably lighter. He glances up, noticing their group has expanded significantly since he dozed off. Odd. Normally that kind of movement would wake him up. Charlie and Meg are in a heated conversation, and Ruby leans over and says Charlie is "hangry." Hannah is absent, and Sarah is stumbling up the hall when he gets up with the rest of them to head towards the doors. Jo swipes her card and the door gives a happy beep and a click as the lock disengages. They all shuffle out towards the elevators, and Gabriel throws a heavy arm around his neck which earns a disapproving look from Jo though it doesn't seem to stop the man who beams brightly at her, blowing a kiss. She rolls her eyes and props the door open for the rest of the patients to come through. Cas isn't there, which isn't surprising, but is disappointing.

The elevator jolts before making its descent and Dean feels his heart about jump out of his chest and the sudden movement. Why they can't take the stairs he would love to know. Fuck elevators and fuck planes.

He hears snickering behind him and turns to see Ruby laughing at him. He tries to glare, but with the way he about pisses his pants when it shudders probably makes it a lot less threatening.

Dean bolts when the doors open wanting to get off that steel death trap as soon as humanly possible. Ruby and Meg are whispering to each other when they walk out, and Sarah takes prompting from Jo to get her ass in gear. There's some others he hasn't been introduced to yet, though they don't look particularly friendly.

Jo leads the group on down the hall, and they are turning the corner when the second elevator dings and starts spewing out its passengers. Dean looks hopefully, falling behind his group, trying to see if Cas decided to join them after all.

He doesn't.

Dean pretends the way his shoulders sag could be attributed to something else, but he can't scrounge up the excuse.

By the time he gets in the cafe, leading the second group inadvertently, most of the first group already has food and has distributed to different tables. Dean gets his own, walking through the line solemnly, but when he sits down at the end of a mostly empty table he finds he doesn't have much of an appetite.

He picks at what most likely are carton made eggs and sausage that's flimsy and wet before pushing it away and dropping his head on folded arms.

Someone taps his shoulder and he's prepared to see Gabriel or Meg looking at him, ready to deliver their own personal brands of torment, but is met with beautiful blues instead.

"Cas," he breathes. Cas smiles at him, barely there upturn of his lips and Dean feels his about split his damn face. Cas glances around, his posture guarded. Dean kicks out the chair across from him with his foot, gesturing for Cas to have a seat. "Have you met Gabe?" Dean asks, Cas shakes his head. Dean turns, ready to beckon Gabe over to meet his roommate but Cas stops him, his face pensive. Dean gives a questioning look, and Cas exhales, the hair that's too long in the front blowing up with the breath. He grabs his board and scribbles a couple words.

'Not today. Please.'

"Okay," Dean agrees, and he wants to ask, he wants to push, but he doesn't. He lets the other man have his reasons. They chat idly, Dean tells Cas about court, and Cas wishes him luck. Dean asks why he isn't eating, and Cas makes a show of gagging which sends Dean into unreasonably uproarious laughter. He's not surprised to see several off the other patients, and Jo, staring at him precariously. He waves them off and then turns his attention back to Cas.

Eventually Jo comes over to him and says it's time to go back upstairs, and he realizes they're the only ones left. He nods his assent and stands, dumping his mostly untouched tray in the garbage before following Jo out the door and into the treacherous elevators, Cas following silent as ever behind him.

It was eight forty-five when they got back upstairs. Gabriel, Hannah and the others sitting around a deck of cards. Dean stopped to wave. Hannah beckoned him to join them, and he glanced behind him for Cas only to see the other man ducking into their room down the hall. He flashes them a "give me a second" hand motion, or at least he hopes that's what it looked like.

"Cas?" He asks when he enters. Cas is looking down at his hands, his feet dangling off the bed, the left one swinging gently. "Do you wanna talk?" Dean asks, and oh if Sam could see him now. Always claiming Dean couldn't do "feelings talk." It's true, he usually would shy away from those intimate talks about emotion and hardship, it just made him feel awkward. He never knew what to say to someone who was baring their heart to him, who was telling them their secrets they'd kept down in the deepest trenches of their minds. He never could find the right words. Anything he said seemed to be the wrong thing. Telling them his life sucked recently too didn't help. Telling them "I'm sorry" made them glare and turn away. Not saying anything got him yelled at. He didn't mind listening, trying to be an outlet, but they always wanted responses, they wanted solutions he didn't have. He _wanted_ to help, it just seemed like in that area, he couldn't, so he just avoided those talks when he could. When it didn't feel necessary. When he felt like there was someone better for them to talk to. Here though, with Cas, with someone he feels so comfortable with, it just, it feels right. Feels like maybe, he'll find the words.

"Come on, you can talk to me." He says, sitting down gently beside his roommate, his weight making the other man lean into him slightly. Cas looks over at him, rolling his eyes and glaring at him pointedly. Dean smiles. "Write to me then," he says, a soft smile on his face. Cas looks at his hands, all teasing wiped away with severity; his face pensive, thoughtful, considering. Cas reaches for the board with trembling hands.

'Don't know where to start.'

"Anywhere, anything." Cas frowns down at the board, his brow furrowed. He starts writing several times, only to erase it after only one or two words.

'Ask something,' he finally writes.

"Why are you here? I mean, you know, what brought you here? You don't seem crazy, except for that you don't talk. Why don't you talk? Can you talk? Have you ever talked?" Cas raises his hands, gesturing for Dean to stop, a bemused smile that makes him seem younger, more free.

'One question at a time, Dean.'

"Sorry. Alright. Start simple. Can you talk?" Cas nods. "Why don't you?" Sadness flashes before Cas schools his face to something neutral. He contemplates for awhile, tapping the pen against his chin, the skin there pale and smooth, a slight cleft.

'I said the wrong things.' Cas writes, the lines of the words uneven, forced out and bore down upon. His eyes meet Dean's questioning ones and he sighs, wiping away the writing with his sleeve and starting again. 'I was punished... for saying the wrong things.'

"Punished?" Cas nods. "By who?"

'Mother.'

"Didn't your dad stop her?" Cas shakes his head.

'Dad left.'

"Cas... how did she hurt you?" Cas shrugs, running his hand through his shaggy hair, prodding his scalp before pulling the dark locks back and revealing a crooked scar, it's vividness faded with time, but marked enough to prevent hair from growing over it. "What happened?"

'That was the first time.' Cas writes. 'It was an accident.'

"Was it?"

'That time. Yes. She pushed me. I fell down some stairs.'

"Did you see a doctor?"

'No. She was afraid.'

"Of what?"

'Me.' Dean frowns, because that doesn't make sense.

"Why?"

'I'm the devil.' Cas sets the board aside, his hands fiddling with the hem of his scrub top before pulling it off, the plain grey Henley beneath, with it's dirty sleeves and stretched out neck, now visible. He messes with this one longer before taking it off too, turning towards the window, showing Dean the scars he'd caught a glimpse of earlier. It's horrifying. Truly horrifying, but Dean can't take his eyes away. His fingers reach for the mangled skin, twitching before he pulls his hand away, knowing that would be crossing a line.

"She did this?" He asks. Cas sniffles, and then his head bobs, giving him the answer he'd wished wasn't true. "Because you're the devil," Dean states rather than asks, barely concealing his disbelief. Cas nods again.

'She loved me once.' Cas writes, and then Dean sees the scars on his arms. Thinner and straight. Some vertical, most horizontal across his forearms, many littering too thin, bony wrists.

"Did she do those?" Cas freezes, his back going rigid, his breath catching in his throat. "Come on, Cas. It's okay," he soothes. His hand taking Cas', wrapping around the marker with him, his other hand doing circular motions on Cas' far shoulder. A cold-chill runs through Cas, making Dean chuckle softly and apologize in a whisper. Finally, Cas shakes his head and Dean tries to hide his shock.

"Someone else hurt you?" Dean questions, his anger and the man's mother and this new unknown person simmering just beneath the surface. Cas disentangles their fingers so he can writer, and Dean feels the tears to his eyes when he reads the two short words written there.

'I did.'

 **Sorry this took awhile. I had to take the GRE (went well) and then a patient jammed my thumb so I couldn't write for like a week. :P But it's finally here and updates should be pretty quick again. Love to hear what you guys are thinking and feedback makes me very happy 3**

 **Cassie**


	5. Let's take the worst and make it better

**Check the tags, I added a few in regard to the content of this chapter. Please note, the views expressed by characters in this story are not ones that I hold. I work in an inpatient psych ward and I have a high respect for mental health and support for those going through mental health struggles.** **Other warnings include John being neglectful of his children, being a distant husband. Lack of support for Dean's choices, brief queer slurs. Cont'd mentions of childhood abuse and some sexual content pertaining to Dean's sexual history. Some religious questioning.**

They stay there for a while, Cas' back resting against Dean's chest, some unspoken magnetism or gravity drawing them closer in the silence. Cas' trembling stopped the only movement now the thrum of their hearts, and the push and pull of their lungs. If asked, Dean would deny being a cuddler. Deny it fiercely even.

He wasn't sure what his father was like behind closed doors, and he wasn't sure what he had been like before he'd come back from his deployment. He only knew the man that came after. The one who rarely gave physical comfort. He could count on one hand how many times he saw his parents kiss, and he could count on the absent fingers of a double amputee how many memories he has of his father hugging either him or his brother. His warm childhood memories were all of his mother. Bedtime stories and soothing songs during bad nights. Her cinnamon perfume and honey shampoo surrounding him when she'd held him tight after his dad had told him playing guitar was a useless talent.

The memories that hardened him were of his father. His father saying two boys holding hands were little 'fags' in the making. That if you weren't protecting your family you were a poor excuse for a man. That artistic talents were a waste of time because they don't help anybody and someone is always better than you.

The man he saw in the pictures his mother held dear, of the time where she'd fallen for the man who apparently once wasn't surly and rude and reeking of smoke and liquor nightly, seemed different. He'd hold Mary close to him, their fingers intertwined over his chest. A soft smile on his face as he held their first born, Dean himself. He'd been different once. Or so it would seem. After Sam was born, their father had been deployed. Shortly followed by their uncle who had come back a paraplegic, honorably discharged after taking a bullet to his spinal cord.

Months later he'd lost his wife. Mary and the boys had spent the Summer with him. Even then, in the wake of tragedy, Bobby, though outwardly prickly and stubborn, had a soft spot for him, his mother and his brother.

John though had come back with only a fondness for Johnnie. Johnnie Walker.

He's not sure he would label his childhood as particularly bad, just different. The other kids, their mothers, and their fathers were at their plays, recitals, conferences. For him and Sam, it was mostly just Mary. John didn't often deign school extracurriculars or functions with the necessity of his presence. He'd always chalked it up to the fact his father was a military man, and at heart, he thought certain things were preparing his sons better. Sam though, was resentful of John's lack of support, and Dean's lack of reaction to it.

He only rarely got any sort of approval from his father, and more often he got frozen out because his father was unhappy with his choices. Their mother tried to have enough support to cover the both of them, but it sucked the life out of her, drawing her beyond her years in energy and patience. He really only recalls about three instances where he'd felt anything resembling happiness directed at him from his father. The times he was unhappy, uncountable.

The first good moment he remembers was, surprisingly, when John, who wasn't supposed to be home at the time, had caught him balls deep in a girl. That evening, at a meal he had expected to be awkward for different reasons, he had been slapped on the back and given a shot for "ditching his virginity." His mom had smiled tightly, and that burned more than the alcohol that night.

The other was when he'd shot a buck through the eyes from 150 yards away. Dean loathed hunting. They didn't eat the animals, didn't do anything with them. Just killed them for sport, but that was about the only time his dad would look at him.

When he'd had a piece of work selected for the school art show from a class he had only taken to fulfill a requirement, he'd been surprised, but pleased he'd been able to create something. His father had sneered and said "isn't art for girls and queers," a pointed look in his eye that had kept Dean from ever truly exploring the part of him that lingered on boys. He liked girls plenty, but every so often, a boy would catch his eye the same way. He tried to ignore and deny it, say it was something different than what he knew it to be, but it didn't help. Didn't change anything.

His junior year he indulged himself quietly and tried out for football. He'd earned a smidge of approval from John when he made it, though he spent most of the year apparently not too subtly eyeing the other boys; they weren't very receptive either, occasionally making comments that maybe he should change in the girls' locker. So he spent school painfully in some sort of a closet, knowing on the other side was a mother who would love him no matter what, a team that would probably be divided amongst acceptance and distaste, and a father who showed distaste for anything he deemed less than masculine.

The long list of starkly disappointed moments from his father started his freshman year when he had fallen head over heels for Cassie. He'd been green and excited, itching to bring home this wonderful girl to his parents. Very quickly, he had realized it wasn't such a good idea after all. John had glared at the both of them from across the table, and it hadn't taken long for Mary to steal away Cassie under the guise of showing her the backyard and all the flowers Mary like to indulge herself in while John ranted about how Dean needed to do better and that wasn't the kind of person he wanted in his house. Dean didn't get it at first, Cassie was smart and beautiful and sweet. He couldn't fathom what his father's problem was. Until the words 'sweet white girl' came out of his mouth, and he realized his father was up in arms because the girl he loved was black.

It had torn him down, but after awkward goodbyes and an even worse morning at school, he told Cassie it wasn't working. It had killed him because he loved being around her, and he couldn't even give a good explanation for why they couldn't be together anymore. He hated it, and he was pretty sure after that she hated him, and the demolition in his and his father's wake just kept on rolling.

His graduation offered no praise from his father, had barely even gotten attendance out of the man. While other kids had sections of the auditorium cheering for them, Dean had his mother, Sam and their uncle, enthusiastic, but still leaving a hollow feeling in him knowing his father couldn't be bothered.

When he'd gotten accepted to college, John had been downright furious. That was a night Mary had made John go sleep in a motel. A night that made him wonder, with parents so frequently divided on matters, why they were still together at all.

Dean never ended up going, deciding not to push their marriage further, trying not to trigger what seemed like an inevitable divorce. Instead, he insisted he had applied just to see if he could do it, and that he hadn't had any real interest. It had been a lie through and through, one that still left a bitter taste in his mouth though he would never admit it, never risk the fallout continuous fighting could bring. Not over his damn education. He'd keep John as happy as possible, trying to keep options open for Sam instead. He couldn't leave his mother here alone, and Sam deserved more.

He wasn't willing to enlist in the army though, it didn't matter how John pushed, didn't matter how many brochures he crammed under his door. He wasn't doing that. He picked up work for Bobby instead, fixed up what was his dad's car before he'd left, and the day he'd gotten it running was the third and final praise he'd gotten from his father.

Looking at Cas though, he guesses he should be grateful for those three times, and for the warmth his mother supplied in his father's absence. Cas had neither of those. A father that had abandoned him to what sounds like a woman who belongs in an asylum more than any of the other folks he's met here combined. He tightens his grip. Again, it crosses his mind, as it usually does in times of confusion or in the presence of mindless acts of violence, how people can latch so securely to the idea of God. When innocents are shot down in the streets of their homes in the name of 'peace,' when earthquakes and natural disaster mow down populations and cities without pause, and kind people are hurt, and people say it's part of his plan. If His plan is torture and destruction, Dean wants nothing to do with it. He wonders sometimes if there was a God at one point, but that human behavior pushed him to abandon his creation.

Eventually, the cool temperature in the room drew shivers from Cas, and Dean released him reluctantly so he could layer up against the chill. Cas was pale and thin, bordering on looking malnourished. Of the strife he had growing up, being underfed was not one of them. Pie was a frequent accessory to the table, home-cooked meals, southern learned meals. If he weren't active he'd be three hundred pounds by now he's sure.

"Dean?" A voice calls from the door. He turns at the unfamiliar voice and sees a short, well, short to him, man in a suit that seemed far too nice for his surroundings. "Denim and flannel, you'll make quite the picture won't you," the man snarks and Dean's hackles rise immediately. "Relax, I'm your representative." Dean's stare must demonstrate his apparent confusion because the man rolls his eyes at him. "For court. When I got your briefing they said psychotic they didn't mention intellectually delayed."

"You better watch your mouth before I call my brother who is an _actual_ lawyer," Dean says, and yeah, maybe Sam isn't an _actual_ lawyer, he is a lawyer in training and could still probably talk this shit stain under the table.

"Relax, Dean. I _am_ here to help you. I just like to have a bit of fun as well." He extends his hand. "Crowley, defense attorney, specializing in mental health." Dean glances at the outstretched hand, making to move to take it.

"You got a card?" Dean asks. Crowley grimaces but flips open the lapel of his suit to pull one from an inner pocket and flick it out to Dean.

"Fergus?" He questions.

"Mother." Crowley deadpans.

"Yeah, sure, Fergus." Dean says, handing it back.

"Might want to hold on to that, future reference," he snarks, throwing a malicious wink. Dean huffs, not dignifying the action with an actual comment.

"So what do you want, is it time to go?" Dean asks, crossing his arms across his chest, not so subtly puffing up and looming at his full height.

"Hardly, I just wanted to introduce myself, see what exactly I'm working with and tell you roughly how this will go. I'll ask questions that you hopefully can come up with a positive answer to, the prosecutor's side will ask questions they hope will put your mental health and position in society in poor light. Now tell me, what is it that you do when you aren't in the loony bin?"

"I work for my Uncle."

"Uh huh. And is this a reliable source of income? Do you have a place to live? Familial support?"

"It's reliable. I work between thirty and fifty hours a week. Cars breaking down is a pretty consistent thing. I live in an apartment nearby. I have my uncle and my brother around."

"Uh huh. Parents? Are you current on your bills?"

"Both passed. And yes, even I can write a couple checks a few times a month."

"Well, I have a bit to work with. Now, about some of these criminal charges? Hm?"

"Nothing stuck," Dean says, his hand going to the back of his neck, uselessly trying to hide the flush that was creeping up.

"It stuck enough to be a problem," he says, quirking an eyebrow.

"Whatever, just get me out of here."

"That's my job," Crowley says before turning and waving over his shoulder. "Until later squirrel."

"Yeah whatever, Fergus," Dean calls down the hall, his voice a couple notches louder than it should be. "Swarmy little fucker," he mumbles.

When he looks back into his room, Cas is down under the covers, but more in a sleeping position than a hiding position, and Dean decides to let him be for the time being. He unloaded a lot of crap to Dean, and maybe he just needs some time to collect himself. He looks back one more time, wondering if maybe Cas is the type who would want comfort after dropping that kind of emotional load. He walks back in, hefting himself up onto the nightstand by Cas' bed.

"Hey, Cas?" Beautiful blues flash up at him from under long dark lashes. "Hey, buddy." Dean puts his hand on Cas' shoulder and feels some of the tension seep out of him, all but melting into a puddle on the mattress. Well, that answers that question."How you feeling?"

Cas shrugs, followed by a couple of slow, long blinks.

"You tired?" Cas seems to ponder that a moment, his brow furrowing before nodding. "I got court in a little bit, but I'll stay with you until then." The corner of Cas' mouth turns up and he burrows into his pillow.

A couple of minutes pass before frustrated blues turn to look at him again.

"Can't sleep?" Dean asks. Cas nods and then huffs. "You uh- you told me a lot of stuff, Cas. Do you, want to ask something about me?" Cas looks at him, open wonder on his face, making him look scantly eighteen, and for a moment there's the brief, vivid sense of deja-vu, though he can't imagine why. He'd remember someone like Cas. He would.

"What do you want to know?" Dean asks. Cas shrugs. "Alright." He draws the word out, wondering where to start, what to say, what Cas would be even remotely interested about. "Did you see Sam when he was here? Big tall guy with way too much hair for a man?"

Cas shakes his head.

"He's my brother," Dean starts but Cas shakes his head again.

"What do you mean 'no'? He's my brother."

Cas shakes his head more emphatically.

"You don't want to hear about my brother?" Dean guesses. Cas nods then points with what Dean hopes is his finger beneath the blanket, at Dean. "You want to talk about me." Dean mumbles. Cas saw right through Dean's deflection towards his brother, his attempt to let Cas learn something through someone else without directly talking about himself, his plea to talk about someone worth talking about, someone you could be proud of. Dean frowns and looks down, down at his hands that are good on an engine and not much else. Warmth envelops one, and through foggy eyes, he sees Cas' pale hand wrapped around his, long fingers threading their way through calloused ones.

Cas' earnest expression melts his wall, his facade, his barrier.

"I have a brother, Sam," he starts. "Both of my parents have passed. Mom a few years ago, Dad more recently. We lived with my Uncle for a while, and I work on cars for him now. He came back from the war after a shot to his spine. He couldn't walk, and it was hard for him to keep up his business, and it gave me an excuse not to enlist like my father wanted me to." He pauses.

"My dad came back damaged in a different way. I barely knew him before, but sometimes the way mom looked at him was like she was looking at a ghost rather than a man. She tried to be there for us when dad wouldn't, couldn't. He died a few months ago. Sam and I had a bit of a falling out after."

Cas looked at him in questioning, the creases in his face all but spelling out 'why?' Dean sighs.

"Sam wanted to know what I was going to do now that dad wasn't holding me back."

Cas looks more confused instead of enlightened.

"I didn't go to college, because my dad didn't see a point, and he was right. I mean I make good money doing what I do, and I don't have loans to pay off. Well, not my own. I took out some for Sam." When he looks up he's startled to see the way Cas is looking at him, like he's gazing upon a star. "What?" Dean asks. Cas shakes his head and turns Dean's hand over in his, tracing patterns into his palm, and then looking up at him. Cas taps the side of his cheek and pulls his chin down to watch the patterns, and Dean realizes he's spelling.

Tears threaten the edges of his eyes when Cas finishes, looking up at him satisfied and smiling that crooked, beautiful smile of his.

' _You're good Dean_.'

He's not able to respond because the nurse knocks then, Jo again, her hip cocked and leaning against the door frame, clicking away on the wheeled computer, a small cup sitting on the surface.

"Sleep, Cas." Dean says before hopping down and heading for the door, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Morning, Dean," Jo says without looking up.

"Jo," Dean acknowledges, a small smile on his face.

"Gonna take your meds today?" She asked, her deceptively sweet face looking up at him, wisps of her hair falling down her neck where they've escaped the messy bun she tied up, caught in the collar of the flannel shirt she has over her purple scrubs.

"Crazy meds?" He asks, and she huffs, dropping her hand to her hip.

"Psych meds. Dean," she says, her voice serious now, all playfulness dropped. "Just because you take them doesn't make you crazy. Do I look crazy?" She asks, and Dean hesitates, hoping it's not a trick question that's going to get him hit for answering wrong. She rolls her eyes at him, "just answer the question. Do I look like what you consider 'crazy'?"

"No," he says tentatively.

"Would you believe me if I said I was on Prozac for over a year?"

"Prozac?"

"It's for depression. After my father died I had trouble coping, so I went to a therapist, a shrink, and I took some psych meds for awhile while I learned how to deal with it. Does that make me crazy?"

"No," he concedes.

"Then it doesn't make you crazy either. Sometimes people just need a little bit of help. A cancer patient taking Percocet isn't opioid dependent or a drug user. They're just doing what they have to do to get through their illness. Mental health isn't any different. Seeing a therapist and leaning on people is normal when it's a physical illness, it's normal when it's mental too."

"I don't have a mental illness," Dean argues. Jo sighs.

"Will you just take it. For me?" She asks, turning her big brown eyes on him, a small container that looks like the ones you can get ketchup in at burger joints in her outstretched palm. He pushes it back towards her.

"I'm sorry, but I just don't need it. And if you don't need pain meds and you take them, you are dependent. So no thanks."

"Alright. Good luck in court, Dean. Don't let the crazy out," she says, winking before turning away, squeaking shoes and creaking wheels to the computer echoing and fading down the hallway. When he turns back to Cas he sees just the tuft of hair sticking out from under the covers, and guesses he's asleep.

He decides to wander up the hall instead, and see what a weekday morning in crazy land looks like. Surprisingly, Gabe isn't up yet. Ruby is out though, fully dressed in skinny jeans and a tee shirt, her laceless sneakers sitting beside her chair. Her mahogany hair is twisted in a graceful braided bun and there's light makeup on her face. A striking contrast from the tangled ponytail and scrubs she had on the day before.

"Hiya Dean," she says.

"Mornin'. What's with the clothes?" He asks and Ruby smiles broadly. She's beautiful, which is something he hadn't really noticed the day before in his preoccupation to leave.

"I'm leaving today." Dean wants to be happy for her, but a part of him knows that if she leaves, someone else will take her place. Someone he doesn't know, not that he's terribly familiar with her. "I know, you'll miss me terribly won't you."

"Oh shut up," he says, but they're both fighting smiles and it's playful and light, and it's the kind of interaction he's missed while he's been on the road. "What time are you gettin' out of here?" He asks. Ruby shrugs.

"Dunno. Whenever my ride can get here. Could be soon could not be until this afternoon. I just want to be ready. I'm dying for a good burger. The cafe teased me with one Saturday but I swear a tofu burger would have tasted better." Dean laughs.

"Yeah, I think breakfast is the best meal they serve and even it isn't fantastic," he admits.

Jo walks up then, a whiteboard marker in hand and looks at Dean.

"Decided to come to group did you?" She asks, her tone like she expects him to disagree.

"It's also my last group before I go," Ruby stage whispers. People start to trickle in after that, starting with Meg and her unruly waves looking all the world like she would rather be in bed than up and in group right now. Hannah joins shortly after, her face brighter than it was the first time he'd seen her. She gives him a timid wave and a small smile that Dean returns.

He'd never expected an inpatient ward to be like this. Movies and shows always made it look like he should be surrounded by serial killers and people like Jack Nicholson type characters. He didn't expect people to be so... normal. They were just people, quirky people, but people.

"Alright," Jo says, her voice authoritative, silencing the murmurs that had been passing within the group. Sarah slides in, an apologetic smile on her face. "Like always, we talk about goals in the morning. But what else have we talked about?"

Ruby raises her hand with enthusiasm. "They have to be good goals. Unlike Gabriel wanting to put a candy store on the moon for the aliens."

"Let's try and refrain from mocking other people's goals, Ruby," Jo admonishes, and it sounds like it's far from the first time a comment like that has been made. Ruby just shrugs and falls back into her chair. Jo turns to the board and writes out SMART vertically. "These criteria will help you make good, successful, helpful goals."

"A SMART goals, my lowest grade," Gabriel says as he walks up, plopping down next to Dean and throwing his feet up on the table in front of them.

"Yes Gabriel, do you remember which aspect you struggle with?"

"All of them, really," Gabriel answers honestly. Jo's probing glance though makes him consider it further. "Realistic," Gabriel mutters. "But hey, my ideas are good!"

"They are unique, yes, but they aren't something you as a single person can do. And we don't want to have OUR goals centered around things that are dependent on other people. We want it to be in our control." Jo turns back and finishes writing out the acronym Gabriel had started.

S - pecific

M - easurable

A - ttainable

R - ealistic

T - imely

"Ruby, since you're going home today, would you like to start?" Jo asks. Ruby ponders for a moment.

"My goal this week is to take my medicine as scheduled and go swimming twice."

"Excellent. I would make a small addition though, something I want you to do either before you leave or shortly after getting home. I want you to make a crisis plan. A what to do if you feel like things are getting out of hand that both you can follow and that your family can follow. What signs mean it's time to visit the hospital again. More than anything, we want to make sure you're safe when you leave us." Ruby smiles before pulling a folded slip from her jeans. "Got it."

Dean hadn't expected this from group therapy. He thought it would be more of, who bad-touched you as a child for you to end up this way. Which of your parents beat you, lets share and cry about it together.

"Dean?" His head snaps up so fast he's almost certain is cracked. He shoots a glare at Gabriel who's snickering beside him.

"Would you like to give it a go? There's no judgment here."

"My goal is to leave."

"Were you even listening, Dean?"

"My goal is to leave today," he amends.

"Well sort of," she concedes. "I mentioned that we don't want to make goals based on other people. Ultimately, it's up to the judge whether you get to go home or not, it's not in your control, so you'll just get frustrated and discouraged if at the end of the day, that wasn't able to happen. You could revise it and say 'I want to represent myself accurately, take my medicine and behave properly so I can say I did everything in my power to leave today.' And the great news is you're already doing that by coming to group."

"Yeah, ok." He grumbles because he heard how she tried to sneak in the meds thing again, and that was _not_ happening. He can behave, he can talk to other people, he can follow the herd down to the cafe three times a day, but he's not taking something he doesn't need and no one is going to convince him otherwise.

Jo resists the urge to roll her eyes at him, knowing she might as well be talking to a brick wall, but admits temporary defeat and moves on the next person. He only gets through half of Gabriel's outlandish plan that he thinks is good because it's on Earth this time before Ash walks by and motions for him to come on. Dean hops up, stepping over Gabriel's legs that he just quirked his eyebrow at Dean when he stood instead of moving, and jogs to Ash, just barely refraining from sprinting over, energy too wound in his muscles.

"Time for court, come on." Dean falters, wondering if he should check in on Cas before he goes, make sure he's okay given the things that had just been unloaded, but Ash isn't stopping, so Dean just promises to go see him before he leaves. He runs his hand down his face, trying to pep-himself up when he realizes how rough it is. Shit.

He's dressed poorly, he's got day old stubble and two-day old clothes, but apparently, this is as good as it's going to get. He at least hopes he doesn't stink. He had planned on showering, but that had gone out the window when Cas needed him instead. He jogs again, trying to catch up to Ash, and loses his footing slightly, slipping on the miscolored tile. Ash chuckles but doesn't say anything else. He leads him down the opposite to where his room is and opens a room labeled 'multi-purpose,' the key sticking in the lock as he tries to pull it out.

"You're doing telecourt, so the judge will be on that monitor," he says, pointing to an eighteen-inch monitor that he starts typing log-in credentials on. "The doctor will be in here with you, and the judge will ask you both questions. The doctor and your representation will be in here shortly. I'll just finish getting this set up." He opens an app on the desktop and then is prompted for more login. Dean wanders, peeking out the window, gazing out towards the parking lot. He smiles, knowing he'll be out of here in a few short hours. He doesn't know how he'll get back to the bar where his car is, or if his car is even still there, but damn it he'll walk there if he has to. He'll be free of this place real soon. His smile falters then because he'll be gone, but Cas won't. He's still not sure why Cas is in here. The story he told made it sound more like his mother needed to be here instead of him. He wonders where Cas will go. Obviously, he can't go home, unless his mother is in prison, which Dean thinks is the only place she belongs more than taking his spot in this damn facility. SHE'S crazy. He's not like that, and it doesn't seem like Cas is either... But he's here and doesn't seem to care. The door opens again and Dr. Fitzgerald comes in, all lanky limbs and knobby nose.

He's accompanied by two large males and an officer. Dean narrows his eyes at the officer, not recognizing him as one of the ones who made the arrest at the bar, and not knowing why he would be here otherwise. Before he has time to think much more on it or to say anything the screen has a few booming clicks as sound adjusts, and then there's a squirrelly looking man looking at him.

"H-hello Mr. Winchester," the man who he assumes is the judge says, the first words sputtering out slightly, his speech resembling that of a failing car, stuttering and struggling to start, pushing through every cycle, every syllable. Dean waves, his eye-catching Ash taking a seat, and a glance around reveals he's the only one still standing. He looks behind himself, noting the empty chair and takes a seat. "I'm uh- I'm judge Edlund," he looks down at papers before scrabbling for a pair of reading glasses laid off to the side and putting them on his nose, almost poking the earpiece into his eye before steadying his hand. "Am I correct in saying you wish to contest your involuntary admission?" He asks, looking at Dean from over his lenses.

"Yes, sir." He didn't think he'd be this nervous, it's obvious he isn't supposed to be here, the judge will see that, right? He's sure, or at least that's what he keeps telling himself. As long as he presents himself coherently, this will be easy.

"Let's begin then."

 ***** **Note: sorry that took soooo long. I'm not abandoning this story, it is near and dear to my heart, I just have had some things come up in life that made it hard to make an update in a timely manner. I mostly write at work but recently we have been so understaffed and have had such high acuity that by the end of the day my energy is zonked. I hope to hear back, somehow even though this chapter was supposed to center on Court, I didn't even end up making it to that topic, and decided 5k was enough for this update. I love hearing from you guys, it makes my day and gives me motivation to work on it even when I'm tired or don't quite have enough energy.**

 **Hope you are all still enjoying it. I love feedback 3 (even criticism as long as it's constructive!)**

 **Until next time**

 **Cassie**


	6. Let's take this mess and make a home

"Alright. Nick, proceed." The man that stands hardly looks the part of a lawyer. He's got scruff on his cheeks, but not in the trimmed and fashioned manner that Crowley does, and his shirt is open a button and lacking a tie, his hands in his pockets, his posture lax and almost jeering.

"Dr. Fitzgerald, you have been in charge of Mr. Winchester's care, correct?"

Dr. Fitzgerald nods. "Yes, I have been following his progress since his admission."

"When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"This morning."

"Mhmm, yes. We spoke briefly. I've also been reading the nursing notes."

"Would you say you have a good grasp on the nature of his illness?"

"I do. I have spent sufficient time with the patient and with the patient's brother who was able to provide some collateral"

"And what would you say that illness is?"

"I believe we are looking at schizoaffective disorder. Mr. Winchester suffers from delusions, paranoia, internal preoccupation as well as depressive symptomology."

Dean's mouth is open. How can he sit there and _blatantly_ lie like that? He's about to say something, to lash out when Crowley taps his foot with his own, side-eyeing him with a fierce 'not now' look. Dean clenches his jaw and resolves to hold his tongue, at least for the time being. After all, the decision isn't made yet. Right?

"Do you believe Mr. Winchester presents a danger to himself?"

"Not currently. I don't see any suicidal intent or plan. His IS doesn't appear to be urging him to injure himself."

"Do you think he presents a danger to others?" Dean's hackles rise.

"Possibly. It's possible that with the nature of his delusion he could target a normal citizen."

"Do you believe that inpatient care is the best care the patient can receive?"

"Yes. Given the acuity and the patient's flighty behavior, I don't think he would adhere to outpatient follow up or a medication regime given he has yet to concede to medication while inpatient."

"No further questions," Nick says, the papers he'd been holding but never looking at tossed to the table top, sliding down into his chair in a way that resembles a god-damn snake.

"Crowley?" The judge asks, rubbing at his baggy eyes beneath his glasses.

"Dr. Fitzgerald, you said you met with Dean's brother, yes?"

"I did."

"Did he indicate in that conversation that Dean had ever behaved violently in the past?"

"Not towards people. He mentioned some ritualistic killings of animals."

"Could those be religious in nature?"

"I don't know. I'm not qualified to speculate."

"Has Dean given anything less than proper behavior since admission?"

"He has refused his medications, but otherwise he's been fine. Calm, cooperative, social."

"Dean has a job in the community, yes?" Crowley holds himself with far more grace than Nick, his aura commanding. Dean is starting to feel like this might be the trainwreck he had thought after the first round of questions.

"He works for a family friend, but yes, he has employment."

"And housing?" Crowley says, his eyebrow raised.

"Yes. Stable housing."

"And at this point, we haven't seen inclination towards harm to other people?"

"No, we have not."

"Dean," Crowley says, turning towards him now. "Do you believe you suffer from a mental illness?"

"No. It was hard when my mother passed, and again when my father did, but I adjusted. I'm fine."

"You feel safe and able to return to your home and job?"

"I do."

"Do you keep in contact with your brother?"

"Not consistent but yes. We talk."

"He would check in with you I presume?"

"I'm sure. Can't keep his nose out of anything."

"No more questions."

"Alright, Dean," Judge Shirley says, peering at Dean, though through the screen, it still feels like his gaze is boring holes into Dean's forehead. "Can you tell me about the incident at the hospital? When you had to be restrained?"

"I had a bad feeling. My mother, who was highly religious, gave me a vial of holy water to keep on me. The Latin I picked up myself. It's supposed to ward off evil."

"Did you intend to harm the nurse."

"I did not. Neither the water nor the charm cause physical harm."

"Mhmm. Well," he says, flicking his eyes beyond Dean before facing him again. Dean turns his head and is pretty confident he had glanced at the officer standing to Dean's right. "I want to go ahead and keep you a few days. I'm going to initiate a TRC committee. Should these individuals advise against this, I authorize your discharge. If they agree, your stay shall not exceed fifteen days. Good luck Mr. Winchester."

He hears footsteps behind him, but he makes no motion to move. Eventually, Dr. Fitzgerald and his bulbous nose and bony shoulders.

"Dean, do you have questions?"

"Why am I here." It's barely above a whisper, and his voice creaks as it slips by his lips.

"We just want to help you, Dean."

He's laying face down on his mattress. Cas had tried to talk to him when he came back, but he'd ignored his roommate. He wasn't in the mood to talk. Not even to Cas.

Eventually, there's a hesitant knock at his door. He doesn't look up, but Jo's soft voice comes through. He grabs his pillow and holds it over his head.

"Dean," her voice cuts through. "They are holding the committee in an hour. Do you want to be present?"

"No."

She doesn't say anything else, but it's a few long moments before he hears her footsteps retreating.

He fell asleep. Or at least he thinks he fell asleep. That, or he just zoned out hard. He's not sure, he's not even sure he cares.

Not long later, Jo and Dr. Fitzgerald show up.

"Dean," Fitzgerald says, his knuckles rapping on the door frame. God, won't they just let him sleep? "Dean."

"What?"

"Do you remember what we talked about at the end of that meeting?" His brain is fuzzy, and he barely remembers the morning at all, so he shakes his head. "We talked about pursuing a TRC. They met... and decided to authorize it. Do you know what that means?" Dean shakes his head. "It means you have to take the medicine. We can give you the pills, but if you refuse, we can give you an injection. It's basically a court order over medicine."

"Give them here," Dean mumbles, sitting up sluggishly, his arms heavy and his legs feeling as if they're made of lead. When he looks up he's first met with Jo's bewildered expression, as well as several large male staff, all of them donned in purple latex gloves.

Jo steps forward, her face morphed into one of quiet apology, and Dean pretends not to notice the way she pockets two syringes. He takes the small cup, one that reminds him of ketchup cups at old diners, of his smiling mother, of happiness, of places other than here. She hands him a small cup of water as well, and he throws back the pills, swallowing dry before flopping back down into bed, the bitter taste crowding the back of his tongue.

"Stick out your tongue for me, Dean," Jo says quietly. He complies, only because he's too tired to be offended or to argue. It didn't get him anywhere before after all. One by one, people leave. A combination, a symphony of loud and quiet footfalls, of brushing fabric and jingling keys. He's almost sure everyone is gone when Jo speaks up again. "I'm here to talk, Dean. Anytime," and then she's gone as well. He takes a cursory peek, noticing Cas curled up under the covers, the blankets rising and falling with his breaths.

At least he won't be alone... Dean thinks as the black in his vision pulls him down.

 **Note: Still working through this. I have already written most of the end, so we are kind of just getting through the middle right now. There's still a little bit to go, and I hope you are all still enjoying it. It's taking a lot out of me to find time to write right now. My son has been sick and my wedding is in a month 0.0**

 **Still, didn't want to leave people hanging, I've been promising this part of the chapter for like three updates now. :P**

 **Please let me know what you think, good or bad, I love feedback.**

 **Until next time!**

 **Cassie**


	7. I know it gets hard for you to stay

It takes several doses before they stop bringing a crew to administer his medicine. Just Jo or Kevin, soft smiles, and delicate voices.

Dean hadn't left his room the rest of the day. A couple of times he heard Gabriel at the door. Belatedly, he realizes he never really said bye to Ruby.

He skips breakfast the next morning and when he finally rolls his lazy ass out of bed Cas is nowhere to be found. He eyes his dresser, the little white bag of toiletries and the pile of blue scrubs and towels. Rubbing a hand down his face, through too much oil and facial hair. He snatches the supplies and closes their bathroom door, hoping that despite the lack of a lock, Cas has the decency to not walk in if there is water running.

He spends a good minute in the shower. It's been a while since he's had one with decent water pressure and heat. Technically, yes, he has somewhere consistent to go. But recently he'd been bouncing cheap motel to cheap motel on his cross-country quest. He can't bring himself to be thankful for it though, not at the price it's cost him. He hasn't noticed anything different after the meds, granted it's only been one dose. He was a little sleepy afterward, but otherwise unchanged.

He lathers his hair, determined not to stare at the dirt he's sure is going down the drain. He washes the rest of himself quickly and almost robotically, not even taking the time to jack off before he's letting the water run down his face again, eyes closed, mind blank.

He hears a knock on his door but resolutely ignores it. Whoever it is, they can wait. Whoever it is, he's not in the mood. Whoever it is can fuck off. Looking at his pile of clothes after he shuts off the water, he curses Sam for not doing something actually useful like bringing him some clean underwear. He groans, not wanting to put on the old underwear, but also not wanting to go commando.

In the end, the underwear are tucked inside his jeans, and the scrubs are directly touching places he wishes they wouldn't. He puts on the non-slip grey socks and gazes at his bed, and then the rumpled one that belongs to his roommate.

He finally makes the decision to leave the room. His room. For who knows how much longer. He glances at the clock across the hall and sees it's ten in the morning. Ten on Tuesday morning. In the psych hospital. Where he apparently belongs.

Briefly, he thinks about calling his brother, about ranting to him, asking if he's happy with what he's done. If he's pleased with his progress, with where he's locked his brother. He doesn't. He doesn't have the will to argue right now. He feels too defeated. Too tired.

Gabriel is practically vibrating in his seat when Dean approaches, Anna sitting silent and unseeing beside him. Meg is across the room, twisting her dark locks between her fingers. They all have cards in their hands, even Anna, though her lands lay prone in her lap. Gabriel throws down another card, and Meg quirks an eyebrow at him, glancing at her own as she continues to twiddle her hair. In the back of the room, in a corner, curled up in on himself, is Cas.

Something tugs in him, bemoaning his attitude the prior afternoon. He'd ignored the questioning look Cas had given him when he'd come back from court, and the concerned glances he'd gotten when the crew had left after his first dose of medication. None of this was Cas' fault, but he was the one taking the brunt of it. Stupid Sam and his dumb hair.

Dean waves at Gabriel, fully intending on walking on by until Gabriel speaks up.

"So I guess you're in with us now, huh?" Dean thinks about giving him a withering look, some snarky remark, anything but the dejected shrug he gives. "What'd you do to get them to call a police escort? Scared poor Sarah when she saw them following you down the hall."

"I didn't notice they followed," Dean said. He'd seen them when he walked in, but after that everything had been kind of a blur. "Probably because I freaked out before they stuck me in here. Thought I'd do it again. Your guess is as good as mine."

"I thought they were here to arrest you," Sarah spoke up, her voice meek and quiet. Dean just shrugged.

"Didja kill someone before you came here? Are you a secret assassin and your brother totally gave you up to the authorities?" Gabriel word-vomitted.

"Yes," Dean says, and then turns away. Gabriel sputters and Sarah makes a small squeak. He feels a little bit bad for making Sarah think he was serious, but it was kind of worth it to have Gabriel shut up for more than two seconds between breaths. He walks up behind Cas, who is gazing out at the drizzling day just beyond the window, a world that's never felt so far away until now, his eyes blank. He almost resembles Anna in this moment, quiet and unmoving, seeing something that just isn't what the rest of them perceive as reality. He's not sure that's what's going on with the redhead, he just assumes for her to be so tuned out to this world, there must be something better flitting about behind her dark irises.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says quietly. With the way Cas had seemed so invested in the color behind the glass, he'd expected him to startle or something. He doesn't. He sits as stock still as he had been before Dean approached. Dean is about to walk away, dejected and assuming he has to pay his penance for his shitty behavior the day prior when clear blue eyes fall on him.

"Hello, Dean."

"Hi," Dean breathes, his shoulders sagging with relief, with the release of stress he hadn't even realized he was holding.

"You said that already," Cas says, and there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Dean had been afraid things would change, that because he was here, he was stuck here, that things would be different. That people would treat him differently now that he's 'involuntary.' Now that more people think he's crazy, but it hasn't. It's the same. He and Cas are still this easy thing. They chat about what happened yesterday afternoon while Dean was 'pouting.' Dean had scowled when Cas had written that word. He had most certainly NOT been pouting. Well, at least not all afternoon. Some of that was just sleeping.

They don't get to talk long before Kevin is coming around and announcing they are about to have group in the area he, Cas, Gabriel, and Sarah are sitting. Dean and Cas share a look, and both give little half-assed shrugs. They can stick it out. Maybe they can get out early on good behavior or whatever. If it counts in prison it should count here, right?

They start talking about goals again, and Dean whispers things to Cas while Gabriel is launching his next super plan. It takes Kevin a while to work through everything that's not quite right with his grandiose scheme, and in the end, Dean wonders if Gabe is serious, or if he just has fun having them pick apart his creations. Dean elects not to participate this time, seeing as he hasn't really had time to think about his goals since his plans were uprooted yesterday morning. He could spout off some nonsense that 'he wants to get better,' or maybe 'make better relations with his brother' but both of those are fat lies. There's nothing wrong with him and Sam is getting the cold shoulder for this stunt for at least six months.

He believes at some point during their 'rules' breakdown Kevin had said to take this seriously and not to detract from other people's therapeutic experience by talking, interrupting or making fun of other patients. He's pretty sure wasting time bullshitting falls under those categories.

He's surprised when once they finish going around the circle he doesn't dismiss them like Jo had, instead he launches into something else called 'discharge planning.' This catches Dean's attention, it apparently does not interest Cas, who gets up and moves silently back to their room. Dean watches him go before flicking his eyes up to Kevin who is also looking to the corner his roommate had disappeared behind. Well, good to know you could leave this shindig whenever you felt like it without getting grilled. With Kevin anyway. He doesn't feel like Jo would let it be that painless.

They spend a decent amount of time talking about strategies to keep them from having to go back to the hospital. The 'emergency plan' is interesting. Basically, a what-to-do in the case of a psychological breakdown, tells your family or neighbors how to help. It doesn't pertain to Dean, but he still thinks it's a pretty neat thing to have. Like life-alert bracelets or living wills. Sort of. He gives them some phone numbers, emergency lines they can contact even at home for help. It's informative, if not quite what Dean had been expecting when he decided to stay. He pointedly asks Gabriel several questions, and Gabe makes a glib comment about his multiple admissions, though he swears by the archangel he's named after this will be his last one. Kevin's pursed lips indicate he thinks otherwise on that comment.

The rest of the day passes much like Sunday had. He goes down to lunch where Cas is nowhere to be found. He plays ball with a group down in the gym, and he pointedly ignores a phone call from Sam, not willing to speak to his meddling brother just yet. The only real difference is when evening med pass happens, he takes his.

 **And we are down another chapter! Now, warning, this fic is about to go zero to sixty here in a little bit. Bear with it, it's got a sort of open ended but easily read as happy ending. Hope you all enjoy!**

 **Also, special thanks to QuirkCirc for those lovely reviews, I love hearing what everyone thinks about my writing and the direction the story is taking.**

 **And thanks Madi Winchester for the well wishes for my son, he's feeling much better and I hope you enjoy the new chapter!**

 **Note: I have a lot of the end written already, I just have to polish it and space it out.**

 **Thanks for your continued support!**

 **(come yell at me on .com**


	8. But do you really want to throw it away?

The next week passes almost in a blur. It's a cluster of meals and groups, conversations he's gone from sarcastically commenting on to enthusiastically participating in. He spends his days with his friends, with Gabe and Anna and Sarah. Others come and go with little fanfare. He takes his meds, and at night, he talks to Cas.

Cas is still mostly reclusive, hiding out in their room, or tucked away in the recess of a corner. He doesn't often go to meals, and even less often Dean actually sees him eat. They often fall asleep talking, and it's a fifty-fifty shot whether Cas is tucked beneath his blankets, his dark hair sticking up the only sign his roommate is still in bed, or his side is barely touched and vacant.

He never worries though. His bed always looks slept in, always recently disheveled. Even when he doesn't spot him immediately in the common room he figures he's tucked himself away somewhere.

Gabriel makes it a pretty decent habit, playing poker. Most mornings when Dean gets up he already has a hand dealt for himself and Anna. He's not sure why Gabe deals Anna in, she's obviously not with it enough to participate, he's never even seen her look at her cards.

Either way, Gabe considers her carefully before letting down cards, his face pensive, watching her porcelain blank one.

"Mornin'," Dean says, rubbing at his eyes.

"Oy, Deano. You think she's bluffing?" He asks, pretending to act inconspicuous talking behind his cards. "She has an impenetrable poker face."

"You know, I can't tell if you're serious or tugging the crazy string, man," Dean admits, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Oh, I'm dead serious," Gabriel says, but the wicked grin his lips are losing the fight against says otherwise.

"Sure, sure," Dean mumbles, taking a careful sip of his coffee. It sucks, but it's hot and caffeinated and that's all that matters at this ungodly hour. Charlie stumbles out several minutes later, mere minutes before the breakfast call.

Dean isn't sure if he is more surprised that he's made his own group of friends here, or that he's not weirded out by the fact that his friends are all in a psych ward, that his best friend probably that he's ever had is someone who doesn't speak, yet always seems to say the right things. His talks with Cas are cathartic, helpful and soothing in a way that he hasn't had in a long time. Cas is quickly moving towards being someone irreplaceable, and perhaps it's that thought that really places the rock in his stomach, because one day soon Dean will leave, and Cas will be left behind.

Or at least that's how he thought it would be.

Things come to a head at day twelve of his sentence.

He wakes up and there's no sign of Cas. The bed has fresh, unmarred, unwrinkled linens. He jumps out of bed, skidding across the hall as he's done too many times here because he refuses their brightly colored non-slip socks. His eyes fall on the door plaques, where only his name hangs.

He knows he looks like a fool running around, eyes wide and frantic as he looks for those blue eyes he's gotten so accustomed to seeing.

Cas wouldn't leave without telling him, would he?

He wasn't going back to his mother? The one who hurt him so badly...

Thoughts spiraled and twisted as he careened around their small square. Finally, he gives up and asks Jo.

"Where's Cas?" He asks, his voice rasping from desperation and disuse, raw from sleep.

"Who?" Jo asks her incessant keyboard clacking ceasing, her big brown eyes looking up at him from above the monitor.

"My roommate. Where's Cas?" If he ever had to recount this moment to anyone, he would say he was the epitome of calm. He was chill and collected, blase as he asked for information. It would be a complete lie.

"Dean, you've never had a roommate. Your room has been blocked since you got here. It's protocol for patients with a history of violence. We had housekeeping clean the other bed because we thought you might be well enough to take a roommate now."

"Yes, I have!" Dean would also argue that he kept his cool during this exchange, that he didn't shout at the sweet, baby-faced nurse that had been more than patient with him. "Castiel, dark hair, blue eyes, whiteboard because he's mute. Sweetest guy you'll probably ever see."

"Dean, I'm sorry. You've never had a roommate, and there's no one in this building with that name."

It was like the floor fell out from under him. Everything falling apart and coming together in rapid succession, too much for him to process and keep up with, but his brain still desperately trying to cling to the path of thoughts as they zipped along his neurons.

"Then who, who was I always talking to?"

"Why don't we go talk somewhere private for a minute, Dean?" Jo offers, and he hadn't noticed her get up from her chair, but she's beside him now, her delicate hand on his shoulder, grounding him. She leads him to a locked room with several armchairs, and he recognizes it as one of their smaller group rooms.

"Do you want to know your official diagnosis here, Dean?" He doesn't trust his tongue, so he nods. "Right now we have it as schizoaffective depressive type. Do you know what that means?" A shake. "It's a mental disorder categorized by hallucinations and delusions as well as depressive mood."

"I'm not-" he tries to argue, but for some reason his tongue is dry and the words are ashen. They catch and clog in his throat, all the argument he's had since he arrived falling flat, leaving him empty.

"When we spoke to Sam, we had a pretty clear picture of delusions of the supernatural. We also noticed you seemed to be responding to internal stimuli. You talked to yourself, laughed inappropriately, and were intermittently internally preoccupied. The depressive type refers to your general mood, which Sam had described as withdrawn, isolative, and relying on poor coping skills since the passing of your parents. Do you have questions?"

"What I do, what I did, after dad, it wasn't real?"

"We have no reason to believe it was. Sam spoke about the rantings you had about demons taking over a family member, causing accidents, but even the markers you claimed could be perceived by anyone, he could not."

"And Cas?"

"An illusion."

"My mind made him up?" Dean's voice broke, but he didn't even have it in him to be ashamed, to care.

"Not exactly. He could be someone you knew, someone you saw on the street in passing. The brain is incapable of making up features and faces from scratch, so it pulls from our subconscious when it makes our dreams, or in your case, hallucinations. He could have been someone close, or a complete stranger you would have never looked twice at otherwise."

"He's not real? He was never real?"

"Not the way you perceived him. I'm sorry, Dean."

It felt like the floor fell out from under him.

He's not sure how long he sat there, staring blankly ahead, or at what point Jo decided he was a lost cause and finally walked away. When he finally emerged, he felt like a ghost of himself, a shell. He felt like his body was walking around but that everything inside, everything that made him Dean was scooped out and dropped into an abyss. He felt utterly gutted.

He vaguely registers someone telling him Sam is on the phone, talking about taking him home in a couple days but he keeps walking. He can't talk to Sam. He can't hear how right he was, can't hear the pity in his tone that's almost constantly there. Even the one thing he thought he was doing right he'd managed to fuck up.

He collapsed in bed, his head colliding painfully with the wooden frame where he'd misjudged his alignment. It throbs, but it's almost soothing the way it grounds him, the way it seems to anchor him to the bed, to the physicality of the world. He wonders how messed up he is to have imagined so many thing, so many touches and emotions, so many conversations and stories.

His thoughts don't spiral too far, exhaustion creeping up and taking him down into its murky depths.

 **So here we go! I hadn't planned to move into this phase as quickly as I did, but it happened.**

 **I'm still not sure I really like the pacing, but to be fair there's a lot of aspects of this story I'm unsure about.**

 **Hope you're still enjoying..**

 **Until next time.**


	9. Take all the ghosts & skeletons you hide

The next morning Dr. Fitzgerald tells him he can leave on Friday. It's the news he's been wanting to hear since he got there, but it doesn't taste nearly as sweet as he thought it would. Apparently, they've already made arrangements for Sam to pick him up.

He's also not thrilled about that fact. The last thing he's ready to hear right now it 'I told you so' from his galumpus of a brother. He doesn't want to hear how happy Sam is that he's 'feeling better.' He doesn't want to see Sam happy that Cas is gone.

He tries, he really does, to act 'normal.' The problem is his version of normal just got turned on its head. He doesn't know what he should be doing, and he only knows that he doesn't feel like doing anything.

He tries to play poker with Gabe, but he can't stop his eyes from wandering. Hope he can't rationalize desperately seeking out the messy dark hair and oversized sleeves. Looking for a travel-sized whiteboard lying around. Something. Anything to tell him Cas was here. That this was all some stupid prank, some elaborate ruse. That he'll wake up and his horrible revelation will be a bad dream he can leave behind.

It never happens.

Every day from then till Friday he's forced to face the reality of it again. Cas is gone. Though, can someone who was never actually there really be gone? He spends too much time in his head philosophizing about things that don't matter. Thursday he's awoken from a nap to blood curdling screaming. He walks out into the main area to see Gabe sitting down, playing cards like nothing's happening, and briefly, he wonders if the screaming is actually there, or if it's in his head again. If it's in his head, could Cas be in his head again?

Those hopes are dashed when Gabriel looks at him and says it's just Anna having a bad day. Or technically a good day. Where she moves from catatonia to aggravated catatonia. Unfortunately for everyone else, it usually comes with screaming. It only lasts a few minutes before several staff emerge from what he assumes is Anna's room down the other hall, brandishing empty syringes.

He doesn't feel like talking anymore that day.

Friday morning comes sooner than he'd like.

Sam gets there, and at least has the decency to look sheepish. Dean is still in the clothes he was admitted in, though they are blessedly clean. His face is still unshaven, but not in a refined and trimmed kind of way, in a 'I'm stressed and can't be bothered kind of way.'

They don't exchange many words. Jo has him fill out some papers, take some prescription sheets, and take the hospital number in case he 'decompensates' and needs a hotline. He also gets the reminder that she's always there to talk, even once he leaves.

He doesn't think he'll take her up on that.

She tries to slip a follow-up psychiatry visit in as a side note as if Dean will cause a fuss, but he takes the reminder card and tucks it in jeans without a word, and barely with eye contact.

She looks worried.

He doesn't have the energy to reassure her.

She talks with Sam before they go. He hears his brother ask if it's really okay for him to go home like this. He doesn't hear Jo's answer. He doesn't care what it is.

They go to an apartment complex Dean doesn't recognize.

Sam says he got Dean a new place, that he needed to have somewhere permanent to stay. He even paid the first month's rent for him.

Dean wants to be angry. But more than anything, he's just tired.

It's one of those pre-furnished places, and the furniture looks static and the placement is weird and it's empty.

He face plants on the bedspread in his jeans. He doesn't pull down the covers. He doesn't even take off his shoes.

He doesn't fall asleep for awhile either.

It's several days later the anger catches up with him.

"This is all your fault, Sam! I had a good thing going. I wasn't hurting anyone, but you had to butt in and fuck it all up and now Cas is gone! I finally, finally had a friend and now he's gone!"

"Dean, Cas wasn't even real," Sam argues gently.

"He was there for me more than you were! He was kind and he didn't judge me for my shit like you always do.

"Dean I'm not judging you."

"But you are. You judge me for not going to college like you did. I have a good job, Sam!"

"I just thought-"

"But you didn't think. Not about me. You thought about you. You thought about your big dumb brother with the delusions and how embarrassing I am to you, you never thought about what I want or about what would make ME happy."

"I was trying to help!"

"Well stop trying! I don't need your God damn help!" Dean slams the door in his face. He doesn't make it far, leaning his back against the door before sliding all the way down, his butt on the stale carpet in his crappy new apartment. Sam's voice barely carries through the door.

"Dean, I know you're hurting. But this is better..."

He doesn't believe him.

1 month later:

Dean's newly picked up prescription rattles in his pocket. There are times he's tempted to feed to the toilet just so he can see Cas again, so he can have his friend back. There's a new ache in his chest, a new throb that's different and sometimes worse than the one he felt when their dad died, that's more prominent than when Sam turned his back on him.

Thinking back on it now, he figures they only clicked so well because he was Dean's imagination; he was everything Dean never knew he wanted, things he didn't know he needed.

He wonders if he brought Cas back if he would be able to hear his voice this time if Cas would talk to him, let his voice be heard, if Cas would kiss him...

The sad part is that he knows, he knows if Sam weren't camped on his couch he would have flushed them a long time ago...

Six weeks later:

Sam comes up to him nervously while Dean is cooking in the kitchen. Another one of his new endeavors since Sam insists he needs to have a permanent residence and not live off diner food anymore. He's wringing what looks like several pieces of newspaper in his hands.

They hadn't spoken much beyond terse words and mindless pleasantries. Dean is just too tired of fighting, and that seems to be all they do if they dig any deeper. Sam just can't comprehend what he went through while he was committed. He can't understand how he feels now, and it just frustrates Dean.

"Dean?" Sam asks hesitantly. Dean looks at him, taking a brief reprieve from stirring the eggs in the bowl. "Will you tell me about him?"


	10. I'll be the boy with the silver lining

**Heed the tags! This is where they come in.**

 **Warnings for:**

 **Mentions of child abuse, graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of injury**

 **If this will trigger in any way, skip to where it says six months later.**

 **2 months later:**

Dean is sitting in his living room, the years-old newspaper article printed on new bright white copy paper sitting on the glass coffee table in front of him.

'Abused teen rescued from parents in a religious cult.'

There's a picture. It's grainy and old, the boy in it skinny and malnourished and even in black and white, he can tell his eyes are dull. Regardless of the differences, he'd recognize him anywhere.

Beneath the article are police reports Sam was able to recover and not so legally give to Dean.

There wasn't a lot of information in the article itself. It simply says

' _Parent Naomi Novak facing charges pending the investigation of the treatment of her son. The boy suffered injuries that are believed to be inflicted by some sort of whip. The teen also had burns and brand marks on his torso and an injury to his eye that's severity has yet to be determined. The teen is currently being treated in a county hospital.'_

The article never mentioned his name.

Diving into the police reports was a different story.

'Information released thus far states that the mother believed the child to be damned by God and needed to serve penance. When asked, ex-husband Charles Edlund remarked his wife had always been odd and religiously preoccupied, but it hadn't ever presented itself as fiercely as when their son was born. She became infatuated with religious text and would rant about how he was an angel sent from God himself, leading her to name him Castiel. Charles reluctantly reveals he had received frightened phone calls from their son up until two years ago when the calls stopped. He says in the calls the boy would say his mother said he was a demon and that he needed to be fixed, but Charles never imagined the boy was in trouble.

Charles and Naomi split when their son was seven, and it appears in the six years since, she has been grossly abusive towards the boy, now eighteen.'

He doesn't know what possessed Sam to include the photos the police took.

There are six.

The first is of wrists that barely are more than bones with angry mottled bruising around them.

The second is an empty, but filthy mattress with blood around the top, center, and edges.

The third is Cas, though if Dean didn't know any better he'd think he was a corpse tied to that damn bed. His back is flayed, his hair even longer than Dean's hallucination, the brand peeking around his side, blood decorating the mattress where the ligature holds him and caked on his sides, staining the spot between his legs.

The fourth about makes Dean lose what little food he's eaten since Sam gave him the papers.

The fifth, well, isn't entirely different from what he'd imagined on Cas' back in the hospital. The pattern is different, but the sentiment is the same. Years of old scars with new ones littered overtop, angry red covering the faint white.

The close up of the brand nearly makes him crumple it all up and throw it out. It's angry and raised, purplish and wrinkled, obviously done haphazardly and not taken care of afterward. It's just too much. Too much for a kid to have had to endure, too much for the sweet man Dean imagined him to be.

Regardless of his sentiment on discarding it all, he reads the paragraph that references the photos. 'Injury sustained from restraint (1). Boy found tied to the bed on his stomach, unclothed (2). The mattress was marked with blood, urine, and feces, and vomit was puddled by victim's mouth (3). An unknown tool used on left eye - infection suspected (4). Bruising and scarring marked on back (5). Brand in unknown language on the victim's right side (6).

He's wiping angry tears from his eyes, wiping roughly at his contacts until shaking hands drop the thing in the floor. He curses and fumbles for it, picking a number and hitting dial.

 _"Hello?"_

"What the fuck Sam?" He knows his voice is trembling, knows he sounds pathetic, but he doesn't have it in him right now to give a damn. Those pictures flashing behind his eyelids like a freaking strobe light over and over again.

 _"What are you talking about?_ " Sam asks, genuine confusion in his voice.

"Why did you give me this shit?" He asks; his anger wilted by the obvious distress coloring his tone.

He remembers this. Just barely. Remembers dad ranting about poor parenting and throwing the paper on the kitchen table before pouring his coffee and adding his dash of whiskey. That ever-present poison he'd been dosing himself with since they lost mom.

" _Well, I was looking into some stuff, and you remember how you told me that nurse said your brain doesn't make up the things you see in dreams and…"_

"Hallucinations, Sam. You can say the damn word."

" _Hallucinations yeah. Well, she told you it uses ones you've already seen, so I thought I'd look into it, and your guy had a pretty unique name, so once I got past lore about the archangel, I found some stuff that led me to the article I sent you. I thought maybe it would help."_

"How is an article detailing horrific child abuse supposed to help me? That was four years ago, that doesn't tell me where he is, or if he's anything like the man I was friends with." Dean's sorrow has fallen to anger, his voice gruff and harsh.

 _"I was just trying to help, Dean,"_ Sam says, and his voice is small. Dean sighs, pressing his fingers into his eyelids until stars dance behind his lids.

"I know Sam. Thanks," he admits.

" _What I don't know is how you got his eye color right. You can't see shit in that photo."_

"Lucky guess?" Dean admonishes, too tired to put much thought into it.

" _Yeah, I guess,"_ Sam sighs. _"Do you want me to stop by?"_

Dean shakes his head. Sam had moved out a week ago, deciding Dean was finally stable enough that he could sleep somewhere besides his older brother's couch, and he went back home. Dean had lamented over Sam's job and his girl, but Sam assured he had something called FMLA that meant he was fine at work, and Ruby was fine as long as Sam kept in touch and that she always sent her best wishes to Dean when they hung up.

"No Sam, I'm good. You still coming up for the weekend?"

 **6 months later:**

Things almost finally feel like normal. Sam is back to doing Sam's thing in Cali. He had brought Ruby to visit about a month ago, and she and Dean had got along like cats and water at first until he noticed the sappy looks they gave each other when they thought he wasn't paying attention. Looks he used to get from Cas... And he decided she was alright. Even if her biting sarcasm was making him want to trepanate himself.

He had a job as a mechanic, fixing cars and restoring classics. An _actual_ mechanic job, not just working under a family friend which was apparently so different to Sam. So much better. And it was good. He was also taking some online courses at the community college per Sam's insistence.

 _"You don't have to stick with it, Dean."_

 _"Just give it a try Dean."_

 _"I just want you to have choices, Dean."_

He shakes his head. He still takes his prescriptions every night, and he has monthly appointments with the psychiatrist in town, Dr. Barnes. She had irked him at first, but they got along well now. He wouldn't hesitate to call her a friend even, and there had been a couple nights they ran into each other down at the bar and nodded at each other from across the counter.

Dean was a social drinker, he mostly came to see the bartender, Benny, who he'd become close friends with. He came over and played _COD_ and _Destiny_ with Dean on Monday nights, and Dean would visit him at work on the weekend. It didn't quite replace the hole Cas had left in him, but it was good. Dean was a lonely guy, he liked the company, and occasionally he found himself down at the animal shelter looking at a friend. Till he'd start sneezing at the cats and cringing at the dog drool.

He's not sure what made him pick here to settle. It was a small town he'd stayed in while he was driving through to one of his cases, back when he thought chasing ghosts cross country was not just a realistic idea, but a good one. It had appealed to him in its quaintness, in its close-knit nature. At first, he'd been fearful in a town this small it would be hard to wedge his way in, but before long he'd become the renown mechanic, the only one that could drink the bartender under the table, and an excellent person to host a cookout. It was good. But it was still missing something...

It was early, and he was on the side of town he doesn't usually go to. He remembered a coffee shop down here he'd visited passing through that had been damn good at waking him up and soothing the hangover he'd had.

 **So there's that!**

 **Summary for anyone who needed to skip the first section:**

 **Basically, Cas was abused by a religiously preoccupied mother who believed him to be the devil. His father had walked out when his mother began these delusions. Sam sent Dean the article about Cas, wondering if that was how he had come up with the hallucination he had been friends with. Dean is angry initially, but eventually realizes it's just Sam trying to help, and thanks him.**

 **We still have a little bit to go, but I think it'll be wrapping up next chapter.**

 **Keep an eye out for it!**

 **Cassie 3**


	11. You'll have the cinderblock garden

It comes to him in bits. Little pieces that flash behind his eyes, vivid images that play in his dreams. Memories he thought were lost to him. Things the damn accident had stolen from him.

He remembered asking his mom to make three lunches in the morning and then doing it himself when she got too sick.

He was young, elementary school when they met. He noticed the other never had food at lunch or snack.

He remembered asking his mom why his mom didn't pack him lunch.

 _"Maybe he doesn't have one,"_ she says the first time.

" _Maybe they're poor,"_ she reasons.

He finds out the boy whose name is too hard to say, whose family is too poor or whose mother isn't around loves peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

He nicknames him Cas.

Cas has eyes that make him think of the sky when he's happy, and the ocean when he's sad. He's too skinny and he squints when he tries to read. Dean is pretty sure he needs glasses.

Dean finds out that Cas' has a mother when he asks if he can come over after school and meet Sammy. His mother won't let him out of the house except for school. When Dean asks why Cas looks down at his hands and won't answer.

In second grade, Dean's mother gets sick. It's words he doesn't really understand. They said her blood was sick, and pretty soon mom didn't get out of bed much anymore, and Dean had to make lunches. He made Sam's for daycare, and he made his and Cas'. Sam asked him once why he made three lunches, and he told him it was for a friend who didn't have any. Sam had hugged his brother's waist tightly before their dad took him to daycare. That summer, their mom passed. Dad always smelled bad after that and Sam spent a lot of nights curled up in Dean's bed.

In third grade, Cas starts coming to school with bruises. For a long time, he won't tell Dean why. He starts wearing long sleeves in the summer, and it makes Dean sick to think about why. Cas stutters excuses when he asks. Dean may be young but he isn't stupid. He knows falling down stairs won't make a bruise that wraps all the way around his wrist. That it won't leave a hand shaped mark on his cheek that he sees when Cas is sitting alone in the cafeteria. It's early in the morning, and the only reason Dean is already there is because Dad has to drop him off before work now. Mom can't walk him to school anymore. He thinks about asking Cas why he's so early, but figures he'll get the same shrug or stuttered excuse.

When Cas starts having trouble-walking Dean has had enough.

"Why are you always hurt?" Cas looks up at him and his eyes look like the ocean today, dark and tumultuous and sad. His eyes are ringed by dark circles that didn't used to be there. "Aren't we friends?" Dean pleads when Cas doesn't answer.

"Mommy says I've been bad," Cas whimpers. His chin is quivering and his eyes are shining, his tiny shoulders shaking and when the first tear falls the floodgates open. "She used to say I was her angel, but now she calls me mean words. She won't let me outside. I just want to go outside, Dean." He remembers hugging Cas. He was a small boy, barely bigger than the kindergartners.

It's the last day he sees his friend.

"Do you remember me having a friend in elementary school?" Dean asks Sam over the phone one day. He's on his fourth cup of coffee and it's barely noon. He'd been up most of the night avoiding the last dream, the one where he hugs the little boy, though now Dean is grown but Cas is not.

" _I mean probably. You had a few friends."_

"Do you remember the lunches?"

" _Lunches?"_

"Did I take an extra lunch to school?" Logically, Dean knows the statistics. He knows the age of onset, he knows how his illness progresses. Logically, he knows there's no way he'd already made up Cas as an eight-year-old. Realistically, he has a hard time trusting what he thinks or sees regarding Cas anymore.

" _Uh. Yeah, actually. I think you did. You'd stopped by fourth grade."_

"Did I ever say why? Did I tell you who it was for?" His voice is growing desperate now, his mind so close to an answer, to close to confirmation.

" _You just said it was for a friend who never brought lunch. I don't remember if you ever told me a name."_

"Damn it," Dean curses. Not for the first time, he aches for some whiskey. He can't drink though. Shouldn't anyway. He's been warned. _Alcohol has interactions with your medicines,_ Garth had said before he'd left. He'd never bought any for the new apartment. It wasn't so hard to avoid it if it wasn't in the house. When it's sitting on the counter practically asking to be consumed, well, that was a different story.

A week later Sam calls back.

" _Dean?"_

"It's three in the morning, Sam. Couldn't whatever this is wait another four hours?" He grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. He'd finally fallen into sleep that didn't involve little boys covered in bruises with teary eyes.

" _I don't think so."_ He can't place the tone in Sam's voice and it's scaring him.

"Sammy, what's wrong?"

" _Nothing, nothing. I just remembered something. There were some days you made our lunches at night, the day before school right?"_

"I guess."

" _You wrote our names on them because I hated peanut butter and your friend loved it."_

"Sam," he breathes.

" _You used to write Cass on the bag. Well, for one day. Then the next day you crossed out the second S."_

"It-it was Cas?"

" _I never met him, so I didn't put those together. If you hadn't asked, I don't think I ever would have remembered a kid you knew when you were eight. I'm surprised you remember."_

"I am too. I'd almost forgotten everything about mom after that."

" _You remember her again too?"_

"Pieces. Shadows. Glimmers. It's never much, and I can't really see her face. Mostly just… the way it felt around her. The way it felt around dad before she was gone."

" _I guess the doctor was right. Temporary amnesia."_

"That fuck wasn't right. He said I'd get memory back within six to eight weeks. It's been like ten years."

" _Close enough,"_ Sam jokes, breaking some of the underlying levity of the situation.

"Close enough." Dean echoes, a small smile on his face.

This is stupid. This is so stupid. Dean changes his shirt for the third time, pulling on the red one again.

"This is so stupid," he mutters. Throwing a messenger bag over his shoulder.

He keeps up the mantra all the way through town. All the way through the parking lot. All the way down the sidewalk, earning him more than one awkward glance. He continues it down the tiled hallway, past all the numbered rooms.

He finally stops when he's outside room 2150, his class schedule in his hands, checking and double-checking the number.

 _General Psych – Room 2150 Education Building – Dr. Wesson_

This was another one of Sam's ideas. Another one of the steps towards improving the life Dean hadn't thought there was anything wrong with. Admittedly, his apartment was nicer. It did feel better to have a job that didn't feel like it hinged on familial connections. It felt good when he had enrolled. It didn't feel so good now with his intestines tying themselves in knots.

He braces himself and crosses the threshold.

Dr. Wesson is a kind woman, but her choice of opening activity is annoying. She passes stupid sticker nametags around and has everyone write their 'preferred name' on them, whatever that meant.

Then they were supposed to talk to three new people, and get some basic information for the stupid handout she was filing through the rows of people.

He signed up for psych, not friend making 101.

He's securing his with slightly trembling hands when there's a prod at his shoulder. He turns around to meet the eyes of an edgy blonde girl whose nametag reads 'Claire.'

They have a basic interaction, and he ends up feeling just as old as he thought he would here, but not as out of place as he would have imagined.

She breaks off after a few minutes to finish her assignment, his answers on her page.

It was weird.

But a good weird.

He looks down several rows in time to see another conversation ending, and he gives himself his mental pep talk before approaching. From this angle, he can only see the back of the guy's head and broad shoulders outlined in a worn leather jacket.

"Hey," Dean says, but his voice catches in his throat when he turns and is met with one eye that looks like the cloudless summer sky, and the other, a shade lighter and dilated oddly, looking at his face from behind glasses, and then down to his chest where his nametag sits.

He's tan and broad, his legs thick and his biceps pushing against the seams of his jacket; his hair is thick and a dark brown, slight red highlights catching in the artificial light. The sleeves to his jacket are rolled up and the skin there is mostly bare, woven bracelets covering his wrists.

Pink lips part in a warm grin, leaving crinkles around those blue eyes.

There's so much different from the man he'd known in the hospital. He's not so thin and gaunt, he has glasses and a kind smile, and then he does something he'd never done in Dean's head.

He speaks.

"Hello, Dean."

 **I debated a long time where and how to end this fic. Originally, I had them meeting at a coffee shop where Cas was the barista and he'd happened upon him while he was passing through for a hunt. That was before I added the angst factor with Cas' background.**

 **If anyone was wondering, Cas didn't talk because Dean didn't have a voice for Cas as an adult. He hadn't seen him since they were children, so there was no data for his brain to use, so I made him mute.**

 **It's been a journey with this story, and it's been close to my heart the whole time, and now we're done. Thanks everyone for reading to the end, I hope you enjoyed. Hope the ending wasn't too terrible. (Of course I had to end it with Hello, Dean – gah).**

 **If you have any questions you can hit me up at cassiel-of-Thursday , or just drop a comment here and I'll respond to it.**

 **Thanks again,**

 **Cassie**


End file.
